Redemption.
by Al
Summary: This was my first fic. Redemption skipped forward in time some twenty years to see just how family life was suiting Harry and Hermione, oh, and there's Draco in it too, though no leather pants, and Fleur, a bit of evil Lucius and even dear old Voldie!
1. Endings & Beginnings

A/N  
  
As I think is probably obvious, I don't actually own any of this ... much as I wish I did. There are some new characters that DO belong to me, and this plot does too, but that's it. This is my first attempt at a story in this vein, although some of you may have noticed me hanging around, quietly reviewing some of your efforts for a couple of months. This is dedicated to everyone I ever reviewed favourably ... you guys inspired me to start this, even though I have no idea where it's going to end up. Reviews would ... of course, be extremely welcome. I want constructive criticism, as well as hints and ideas about where the hell this story could go. By the way, because I don't like writing about the future, it would really help if you could assume either that the original books were set in the mid 1970's, or that it is now around 2020, and the world has not changed much. Also if any of you lovely reviewers would care to suggest a title for me, I would be eternally grateful. At the minute I'm using 'Redemption' because it sounds right for the parts I have written so far. I don't know much about the US rating system, so I'm assuming this is probably a PG-13 or a 12 in England for some minor swearing. Enough faffing about ... let's get on with the show!   
  
Prologue. Endings & Beginnings.  
  
Blackfriars Bridge, London, seven years ago.  
  
Draco closed the car door, and casually slipped the keys into the pocket of his jeans. So doing, he shambled over to the parapet as nonchalantly as was possible in his condition. He put his hands, visibly shaking, to the cold railing that topped the concrete wall, and looked down. The water was a steely grey.  
  
To those who passed him, Draco Malfoy cut a somewhat awkward figure. He was tall, well over six foot, very thin, and an old quidditch injury meant he shambled when he walked. Atop his head perched an untidy mop of silvery blond hair. His face was thin and gaunt and unshaven. He looked like a broken man, and he was.  
  
The events of that fateful day swirled through Draco's mind as he stared down at the swirling, angry river water. Feelings of despair and complete, unquenchable sadness welled up in the pit of his stomach. There was no point in going on, he thought to himself. I could end it now, and there'd be nobody who'd care. Nobody at all; his so called family had deserted him, but the pain that that caused was nothing compared to the pain of his other loss, his first, one and only true love.  
  
Despite his sadness, Draco couldn't help smiling slightly as he recollected how it had been. Their eyes had literally met across a crowded room, at some unremembered party. They had been captivated by one another; they'd done everything together; they'd backpacked around Europe; they'd swum with the dolphins in Jamaica; they'd shared long, romantic evenings and long, romantic dinners, dinners that he had prayed would never end.  
  
Now she didn't want to know. Draco felt himself shaking as the camera of his memory turned to that very day. He had gone round to her place as soon as he'd been able ... but she hadn't wanted to know. In spite of the utter dejection that was washing through his body, a small voice told him to be reasonable ... of course she hadn't wanted to know. She was married now, after all, there was a husband in some high flying job, a kid too, a young boy who had clung to the hem of her dress as they spoke, and as he hadn't failed to notice, she was pregnant again.  
  
But he would have thought the time they had spent together would have counted for something.  
  
She hadn't even asked him in for coffee.  
  
He gulped, blinking back the tears he could feel coming. His whole body was shaking, partly through fear and partly through the icy wind that was cutting right through him, chilling him to the bones.  
  
He couldn't go on. He couldn't recover. There was no way, he thought, no other way than this. As he put his foot on the parapet, he seemed to become detached from reality, as if he wasn't really there, as if he was standing a few feet away, watching himself climb onto the rail, and squat there, still staring down at the angry Thames. It was like a dream. He took a deep breath. Perhaps this would cause her to think. If she couldn't love him in life, perhaps she could grieve for him in death.  
  
He was brought back to his senses by the sound of voices and running footsteps behind him. Slowly, and unsteadily, for in truth he was mortally afraid of heights, he turned.  
  
There were two people standing there. One a tall, bearded, burly man dressed for the cold in a deerstalker helmet and a woollen lumberjack's shirt, the other a teenage boy, about sixteen years old.  
  
"Are you okay mate?" the man asked.  
  
Draco put his foot down on the pavement again, his teeth were chattering, "Please," he gasped, "just leave me alone."  
  
"No mate, sorry, I can't do that," the man said, taking a step forward, a gloved hand outstretched.  
  
"Y-y-you can j-just, w-walk away. Just walk a-a-a-way," stuttered Draco.  
  
"I'm not walking away mate," said the stranger, his voice was warm and kind. He proffered his hand again, "Just think about it mate. You don't really want to do this."  
  
"You c-cannot b-believe how much I w-w-want to do this," he said.  
  
"You must have family mate. Think about them," he took another step forward. The boy did the same, but was waved back.  
  
"Don't much care to think about t-them," said Draco, "never m-much cared to, to think about me."  
  
The other man spread his arms out wide, "You have a choice mate. You can come with me, we can talk this through, we can get you something warm to drink, we can sort this out."  
  
"W-what good can, can you do?" he spluttered.  
  
"I'm a counsellor mate, I do this all the time," he said, "my name's Bruce. D'ya want to talk about this?"  
  
Draco shook his head. He had talked until he was blue in the face, but nobody had taken any notice of him then, and why was this man going to now. Hell he didn't even know the guy.  
  
"You have a choice mate," Bruce repeated, his hand was still outstretched, "I know you don't want to do this to yourself, and I think you know that too? Am I right?"  
  
Draco shook his head again. All he wished now, all he wanted was for this strange, rambling guy to just leave him alone, to be gone, to let him get on with ... doing what he knew he had to do.  
  
"You can come with me, we can sort it out. I'm not going to let you do this," a note of desperation had crept into his voice.  
  
Draco took a step closer to him, feeling in the pocket of his jeans for the reassuring bulk of his penknife. His face contorted into an ugly grimace, his eyes filled with sadness, such sadness, and such fear as Bruce had never before seen.  
  
"Perhaps," said Draco, drawing the knife from his pocket, taking care to conceal it in the palm of his hand, "you didn't hear me properly the first time."  
  
"Come on mate," Bruce was undeterred, "come on."  
  
"I want you to back off," growled Draco, "and I want you to back off now. I want you to get back in your car, and I want you to drive away from here, and I want you to leave me in peace. I need to do this thing, and there's no way on earth I'm going to be stopped now."  
  
"I'm not leaving you," his voice still resolute. Draco advanced another pace. A suspicion was growing in Bruce's mind that this guy was not the type to be trifled with. He turned to the boy, "Get back in the car," he hissed.  
  
The boy didn't need telling twice, he scrambled back inside. Draco glowered all the more fiercely, "Now see," he began, "your kid has the right idea. He knows when a guy doesn't want to be troubled. He knows when somebody just wants to be left on his god damned own!"  
  
Bruce took another step backwards. They were almost at the kerbside now. He put his hand out to steady himself on the roof of the car.  
  
"Do you understand me?"  
  
"Be reasonable mate!"  
  
"I just went way, way beyond being reasonable with you," shouted Draco, "way, way beyond that," he flicked open the blade of his knife, and held it inches from Bruce's now terrified face.  
  
"Okay mate, have it your way," said Bruce, gulping, "we're just gonna get right back in the car, and we're gonna keep going. Okay?"  
  
He grabbed at the door handle, turned, as if to get back in the car, and then stumbled as his foot caught the kerbstone. He gave a strangled cry as he twisted round, and fell forwards into Draco's arms, and onto the blade of the knife. There was a sickening sound as it drove deep into his chest. Bruce gave a gasp, and fell to the ground, his eyes wide open, blood seeping out of the wound on his chest. Draco stared down at the bloodied body, then looked to the face of the boy, who was staring at him, wide eyed with horror. He looked to the corpse again, gave a start, and slowly toppled to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.  
  
***********  
  
The Present Day, somewhere in southern England.   
  
The guests' lounge at the Bull Hotel was filled with old, comfy and voluptuous armchairs. In the grate a roaring fire had been laid. The shelves that lined the walls were filled with antique effect leather bound books, which had in fact been ordered by the manager from the more upmarket kind of magazine.  
  
It was three days before Christmas, and it was the hotel's busy time. The luxurious surroundings made the Bull popular with honeymooning couples, elderly people having an out of season holiday, and those who were heartily sick of the hectic Christmas break, and wanted their turkey cooked for them. In the lounge sat many people getting slowly drunk as the afternoon wore on, chatting animatedly, reading the papers, even having a quiet game of chess. Fine ports and brandies were being consumed, and the atmosphere was jovial.  
  
In a quiet corner, unfettered by the others, one man sat on his own, a briefcase open on his lap, a glass of sherry resting on the table in front of him, a half spent Cuban cigar dangling from his lips. He was absorbed in some task, evidently one of some importance, for every so often he would take a biro, and make little notes on a pad.  
  
He slid one of the plastic wallets out of the briefcase. It was full of ageing photos, taken in the late seventies. They showed two people, a young man with extravagant blond hair and a bristling moustache, and a bright eyed woman in a flowery dress. The man was wearing a leather jacket over a white shirt, and jeans so tight it was a miracle he ever got into them. They looked happy, and he knew from his own experience that they had been happy. The photo had been taken, he recalled, by a friendly American tourist, on top of the Eiffel Tower.  
  
Draco smiled at the memory. Back then, it had been simpler, a better time. Her face was so pretty.  
  
He slid the photo back into the wallet, and took out another. It showed a woman, the same woman, only about twenty years later, and with different hair, but still the same woman. She was standing on a beach, with a dramatic backdrop of vertical, rocky cliffs, wearing a bikini top and a sarong. There were two children, a boy and a girl standing either side of her, holding onto her hands. Their grinning visages left their parentage in no doubt. Dark, unruly hair was blowing in the breeze, they both wore glasses, and on their foreheads, if you stared closely enough, you could just make out the faintest ghost of a scar. They were dressed casually, in shorts and T-shirts, and smiling from ear to ear. The girl waved at Draco.  
  
Now he took out a different photo. The same kids again. This time grinning from beneath bright red hard hats and enveloped in orange overalls, ensconced in kayaks, still waving. Now another, again, the same kids, this time a school photo, hair brushed back, ties slightly skew-whiff.  
  
Satisfied, Draco returned the photos to the wallet, and replaced it in the briefcase. He picked up his sherry, and sipped it. Then he stubbed out the end of his cigar in an ashtray, and picked up his pad. It was all finally starting to come together. He drained the sherry glass.  
  
A voice at his ear said, "Is this seat taken?" It was a pleasant voice, a woman, French. Draco looked up. She was very rotund, sandy brown curls framed a happy face with piggy eyes. She had squeezed herself into what must once have been a very elegant black gown. It was possible, thought Draco, that not so very long ago she had been very pretty indeed, though evidently she had gone to seed. She had the look, he thought, of a publican, a barmaid, or a dinner lady. She looked so familiar though ... Draco had the impression he had known her once, long ago. Draco had met so many people in his life and work however, that he found himself quite unable to place her.  
  
"Go ahead," said Draco, curious as to exactly why a stranger had approached him under such strange circumstances, "go right ahead."  
  
The woman smiled, and sat down in the armchair next to his. In her hand she held a glass of beer, "I wouldn't have asked otherwise," she said, "it's a bit crowded in here though."  
  
"No, no, glad of the company," said Draco, tucking the folders back into his briefcase hurriedly.  
  
"On business?" she asked, sipping her drink.  
  
Draco nodded, "Kind of, kind of."  
  
She smiled again, she smiled a lot, this woman, thought Draco.  
  
"I'm meant to be meeting my husband here," she confided.  
  
So she was married, thought Draco, how strange.  
  
"What line of business are you in Mr ..."  
  
"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."  
  
"Mr Malfoy? Your name seems ... familiar to me. But then I have met so many people in my lifetime. Tell me about your work."  
  
"I suppose," Draco said, thinking on his feet, for although he was indeed in town on business, that business, should its nature be disclosed, could land him in trouble, "I suppose you could call me a private detective."  
  
"A private detective eh? Caught any criminals lately?"  
  
"A few," lied Draco, "they're, they're a bit thin on the ground round here."  
  
She laughed, a happy, lively laugh, "I don't think we have any between you and me," she exclaimed.  
  
"I'm not really here to track down any criminals," said Draco, "I'm kind of, looking for someone."  
  
"Anyone I know?" asked the woman.  
  
"Might be," said Draco, "small town?"  
  
"Oh sure, everybody knows everybody."  
  
"That old cliché," Draco smiled.  
  
"Oh no, in this case, it's true."  
  
Draco thought to himself, how much harm could it do if I asked her? If she knows them, so much the better, if not, I've lost nothing. The germ of an idea was forming in the back of his scheming mind. He opened the briefcase, "Maybe," he began, "just maybe you can help me."  
  
"I'll give it my best shot ... Draco."  
  
Draco pulled out the folder he had been looking at, and handed her the photos of the kids. The woman gave a start of recognition.  
  
"You know these children?"  
  
"What have they done now?"  
  
Was it possible she was their mother? To put it mildly, she was certainly not how Draco had envisaged her looking after all this time.  
  
"They're yours?"  
  
"Heavens no," exclaimed the woman, "they're friends of my son, Andy."  
  
"Troublemakers?"  
  
"Cheeky certainly," she said, "yes, I've known them almost all their lives. Where'd you get that photo."  
  
"I'm a private detective ma'am, we don't reveal our sources."  
  
"No, of course not. My name's Fleur by the way. You don't need to be so formal. You'll find us a fairly familiar bunch round here."  
  
"Well Fleur By The Way, it's a pleasure to meet you. Tell me, do you know their mother?"  
  
Fleur smiled, "What, old Hermione? Of course!"  
  
"Could you tell me how to get in touch with her?"  
  
Fleur smiled again, "No problem. They live up on the hill, the big house by the old tithe barn."  
  
Draco had no idea what she was talking about. He raised his eyebrows slowly, as if asking her to elaborate.  
  
Fleur nodded, "Okay, yeah, you go out to the main road, you turn left, and you head over the green, and out the other side of the village. The house is about three hundred yards on the left. It's got massive gateposts, you can't miss it."  
  
Draco couldn't thank her enough, "You've been most helpful," he said.  
  
"Do I get to hear what all this is about?" asked Fleur, "Do I take it you are ... one of us?"  
  
Draco tapped his nose with his finger, "Discretion is my watchword Fleur. Maybe another time, when this matter is resolved."  
  
"I can't wait," she said casting her glance over to the front desk, where a tall, lanky man with startling red hair was talking to the superior maitre'd, "that's Ron, my husband. I'd better go and join him."  
  
Draco, who had given a start when he heard her husband's name, turned to look in his direction. He eyed the man with interest. He had thought Fleur looked familiar ... surely it wasn't possible. No, not a Weasley. He must be dreaming ... there were thousands of people called Ron in England, and more than one of them must be ginger. All the same, he thought, funny coincidence. He turned back to Fleur, and said, "Well, it was nice meeting you."  
  
"You too Draco. See you around maybe?"  
  
Draco nodded, "Maybe," he said.  
  
She stood up, making her leather armchair creak as she did so, and adjusting her dress, waddled over to meet her husband.  
  
Draco stared again at the photo in his hand. He hadn't expected to get lucky so early on. If the truth be told, he'd been using the detective line as a bluff, and had been surprised it had worked so well. He made a mental note to try it again, and lit another cigar. He had not been so contented in a long time. Things were looking up. He was nearly there.  
  
A/N  
  
So is it just coincidence, Ron Weasley and Fleur Delacour? Surely not? Whatever next? What is Draco really after, and what of the past? Who is the mysterious muggle Bruce, and is he really important, or just a red herring? Did Hermione marry who we really think she married? Can I be bothered to write Harry into this story? What's the time, and most importantly, could someone direct me to a filling station that still has some petrol left? These questions, and more, will be answered soon! By the by, all the characters so far except Bruce and his son belong to the brilliant JK, obviously, please note that I am receiving no big fat royalty cheques, and am skint anyway, so don't sue me ... please. Now all that's left for you to do, my friends, is to review. I really will value your input! Direct your eyes to the little box below!!!  
  



	2. Christmas Spirit

A/N  
  
So, here's the second part. Should anyone from London be reading this, I don't own Capital FM, Neil Fox or Caroline Feraday, they own themselves, and nor do I own Harry, Ron, Hermione and company. They belong to JK. Coke belongs to the Coca Cola company, Ford belongs to Ford and Mercedes to Daimler-Benz. These delicious chocolate chip cookies DO belong to me however. Thanks to everyone who reviewed ... it's always nice to know what people think! Some that caught my eye. To Clara200, there might just be a reason why it would be pertinent to behave like muggles. To Cassandra, thanks for the review, I might not have broken Draco as much as you think, I haven't figured out why I called this Redemption yet, or even whose going to redeem themselves ... if anyone. To Pantalaimon, didn't you lift that name from Northern Lights? I voted for Craig 5 times and am really chuffed he won Big Brother. More good news is that this fic now has its very own soundtrack. I suggest you listen whilst reading to Chris Rea's 'Driving Home For Christmas' or Slade's 'Merry Christmas Everybody.' Anyway, enough with the rambling already ... so review more, and make a slightly obsessed Harry Potter fan very happy indeed!  
  
Chapter One. In which Hermione has difficulty with the dinner, and Harry gets a bit stuck.  
  
Hermione had a new toy, a most exciting new toy. It was a metallic red Mercedes-Benz SLK, a late birthday present from Harry. It was a true head turner, what her father would have called a 'stunning motor.' Now, as she barrelled down the fast lane of the westbound A3, heading out of London she could sense the envy of the drivers of the plush executive saloons that she left floundering in her wake. A beautiful girl in a beautiful car.  
  
Music blared out of the stereo, an old hit from her childhood ... before music had become all sappy and electronic. It being mid December, darkness had already fallen across the city, and the harsh glare of the tungsten lights made everything appear a surreal orange.  
  
She checked her mirrors, a large white Ford Transit was approaching from behind her at some speed. She dutifully moved over to let it past.  
  
"...heavy traffic on the M25 between junctions 9 and 10, that's Leatherhead to the Wisley Interchange, otherwise the motorways seem to be moving pretty freely tonight. An earlier accident at the junction..." she lost the reception as she passed briefly through the Hook Underpass, "...is now cleared. Also watch out for maintenance crews in operation on the Hammersmith Gyratory, and there are works in progress on Uxbridge Road at Hounslow, that's just outside Heathrow. For tomorrow, watch out for the planned demonstration that's going to be taking place in and around Parliament Square and Whitehall, best to avoid that if you can. Back to you Foxy."  
  
"Thanks Caroline. We'll be back with the Flying Eye after the seven o'clock bulletin, following that we'll be counting down the songs that you've been choosing online. It's going to be raining tonight, we might even see some snow out in the sticks. Chilly night, so wrap up warm, and remember, it's nearly Christmas ... here's Madonna..."  
  
Hermione turned down the radio. She had left the lights of London's suburbs behind now, and was cruising through the darkened Surrey countryside. Hermione secretly loved her evening commute home from the Ministry of Magic offices. Of course she could have apparated, or even flown, but Harry always worried about her splinching herself, and she found broomsticks too draughty. No, there was a lot to be said for muggle inventions, she thought, and sometimes, hey, it was just nice to spend some time in the world she knew of old.  
  
Tonight she was filled with an especially warm glow. They would be putting up the Christmas tree ... the whole family would be there, and their friends, and no doubt Harry would have come up with some ever more extravagant decorations. She just hoped the house elves' dinner would be up to scratch. She usually cooked herself of course, but tonight she wanted to play the perfect hostess, and it was nice to get caterers in sometimes.  
  
***********  
  
Harry was also driving across London. He had commandeered a Ministry car and used it to pick up the children from King's Cross. The Hogwarts Express had been badly delayed by leaves on the line at Durham, and he had already been standing around on a windy platform for two and a half hours, along with several hundred other anxious parents, waiting for it to arrive. Consequently he was running even later, and was beginning to worry he might not be home in time for dinner. The first guests would be arriving before very much longer, and here he was, stuck in a car with three hyperactive, sugar fuelled children, in a traffic jam on the Marylebone Flyover.  
  
"Dad?" Will asked. He was sitting on the back seat, squashed in between the Weasleys.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Couldn't we just get a burger or something?"  
  
"No Will," Harry said firmly, "we're cooking a lovely dinner for you all, and we're decorating the tree."  
  
"I'm hungry," Will whined, "couldn't we just stop, just for some chips?"  
  
"We're not stopping," said Harry, annoyed now, "I want to get home ... we've people coming."  
  
Will folded his arms and glared at his father through the rear view mirror.  
  
"I'll eat all my dinner."  
  
"No!"  
  
"I won't ask for a snack!"  
  
"The answer remains no," said Harry, gripping the steering wheel in his irritation, "I have waited hours for your bloody train, and I'm waiting no longer."  
  
Will kicked the back of the driver's seat hard.  
  
"William!"  
  
The Weasley twins, Andy and Mary, looked embarrassed at being exposed to such familial discord. Harry tried to lighten up the atmosphere.  
  
"Did you all have a good term?"  
  
Andy smiled, "We beat Slytherin 560 to 80."  
  
"Nice one. Who's playing these days?"  
  
"Eric Longbottom left last year, so we got a new beater," said Andy, idly picking clumps of dirt from behind his fingernails.  
  
"Who's that?" asked Harry.  
  
"Chris Goddard," said Andy.  
  
"Is he any good?"  
  
"He's a jerk," said Will, "he deserves to be in Slytherin."  
  
"I think he's cute," defended Mary.  
"You would," retorted Andy.  
  
"You got a crush on him then?" asked Harry. Mary blushed to the roots of her hair, "I remember my first crush," he went on. William grimaced, "she was called Cho. She was something."  
  
"Dad!"  
  
Harry grinned, and changed the subject, "What else have you got up to?" in truth, he already had a fairly good idea. The howlers from Headmistress McGonagall had been getting more and more frequent as the term wore on, and most of them had to do with the accusations of one Severus Snape. Though of course, as Snape had always had it in for any unfortunate Potters who strayed into his line of fire, this was not altogether surprising. The day before term started, Harry had bequeathed his son his precious copy of the Marauder's Map, as well as buying him a brand new invisibility cloak from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Judging by the tone of McGonagall's letters, the kids had been putting them to good use.  
  
"We swapped Snape's wand for a trick one," William grinned at the memory.  
  
"He was trying to get it to work all through the lesson. But it kept changing into things," piped up Andy.  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Um, a toy train, and then Professor Flitwick," said William, "it was really cool, everyone was talking about it for days. Even the Slytherins were laughing."  
  
"We lost twenty points though," said Mary, "and Andy and Will got detentions for it."  
  
"We had to polish Snape's bowling trophies," said William, "yeeuch!"  
  
"And another time, someone let a mouse loose during potions," Andy carried on, "that wasn't us. That was Edwina Parkinson. But Snape took points from Gryffindor for it anyway, even though she's in Slytherin, and everyone saw her do it."  
  
Harry could well imagine. It sounded just the sort of thing Snape would do. He remembered the time he and Draco Malfoy had cursed each other in the corridor outside the potions dungeon. The curses had misfired, and Hermione's teeth had come off the worst. Even though it had been Draco's fault, it had been he and Ron who had got the blame. He wondered vaguely where Draco was now. Nothing had been heard of him for some time. Rumours had been circulating of course, that he was lying low in Romania, biding his time and strengthening the cartel of Death Eaters that the Daily Prophet seemed convinced he had at his beck and call, that he was doing time in Azkaban, even that he was dead, though Harry doubted this very much.  
  
"Interesting to see what he made of his life," he muttered to himself.  
  
************  
  
Draco apparated behind a large oak tree. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his conspicuous head, and scuttled across the lawn to the gazebo. The swimming pool had been covered up for the winter, but lights were on inside the house, and there were people moving about inside. He pulled his old pair of omnioculars from the inside of his cloak, and focused them on the nearest window. He was staring straight into the Potter's kitchen. There were two large chickens roasting on spits, and someone was chopping potatoes and flinging them into pots. Her demeanour was angry, and Draco couldn't help but wonder why. Other, unseen figures had evidently called her out of the room, for she disappeared from view at that point, only to reappear in another window. She was talking to someone, but Draco couldn't hear what was being said. Then she shut the curtains, and his view was cut off.  
  
************  
Hermione was not in a good mood at all. It turned out the house elf catering service had let her down once again, and were currently 'too busy' to deal with her request. She returned to the kitchen, and continued attacking the potatoes with her wand.  
  
Ginny stuck her head round the door, "Need a hand Hermi?"  
  
Hermione nodded, "If you could watch that saucepan doesn't boil over, that'd be a great help."  
  
"What you need is a good white sauce, and a better spell book," said Ginny, sitting down at the vast pine table that occupied the centre of the room.  
  
"I know," said Hermione, "Harry keeps promising to buy me one. But he never has the time, and neither do I."  
  
"You need 'Quick Recipes For Career Wizards,'" said Ginny, "it's by Bernice McTavish, you can get it in Flourish and Botts. I'll pick you up a copy if you want."  
  
Hermione took up her wand, pointed it at the saucepan, and said, "Salsum."  
  
"Try Salsus," said Ginny.  
  
Hermione lifted the lid of the pan, "Oh no, look, it worked!" there was a thick sauce bubbling away, "Maybe I have got the hang of this thing."  
  
"So dinner won't be a complete disaster?"  
  
"Not likely, not if Harry gets home soon, he can salvage any number of burnt chickens. Do you want a drink."  
  
"Not for me thanks, I'm saving myself for Christmas Day," said Ginny.  
  
Hermione poured a measure of wine into one of her largest goblets, "Well I'm having one. Bloody elves," she said, staring out of the window.  
  
"Did they let you down bad then?" asked Ginny.  
  
"Oh, they were very bloody polite about it," said Hermione, taking a large swig of wine, "it was all, Sorry Mistress Potter, such an honour to serve for such a noble wizard, but when the crunch came, they can't do it."  
  
"You should get a live in elf," said Ginny, "much better than the catering service. Me and Neville had terrible trouble till we got Blinky."  
  
"Little buggers," swore Hermione, "but it's not as if we need to cook often. I usually eat at the office, and Harry's off to God knows where at whatever the hour most days. He's stopped eating breakfast too. He'll waste away, he's already too skinny."  
  
"That boy needs to put some weight on, for sure," said Ginny, "talking about weight, have you heard Fleur is trying a new diet."  
  
Hermione raised her eyebrows. Fleur's diets were legendary in the wizarding world. She had tried everything, from the Two Cucumbers a Day Diet to the ever popular Gilderoy Lockhart Weight Loss video, in which Lockhart, whom Hermione and Ginny both remembered from their schooldays dressed in horrid spangly leotards and jumped around a lot, whilst exhorting his followers to do the same.  
  
"Is she sticking to it?" asked Hermione.  
  
Ginny shrugged, "I doubt it. She won the Titherne and District Pork Pie Eating Competition last year ... remember?"  
  
Hermione did ... it had taken weeks to get the stains out of her summer dress, and all the muggles present had needed to have their memories altered.  
  
"What does it take to make such a beautiful woman get so fat?" said Hermione.  
  
"Pork pies mainly," said Ginny, "now you come to mention it. I think I will have a drink."  
  
Hermione stared out of the window, as if transfixed by something outside.  
  
"Hello?" said Ginny.  
  
Hermione jumped, "Sorry," she said, "I could have sworn I saw the bushes move."  
  
"Probably just a badger."  
  
"Probably," said Hermione, though she wasn't so sure. She was certain badgers didn't wear long black cloaks, unless it was some joke Harry was playing on her. Where had he got to? It was starting to worry her.  
  
A/N  
  
Okay, so the fact Harry is stuck in a traffic jam isn't much of a cliff hanger, but I promise there will be better ones to come. Sorry it's so short and there's not much happening yet, it will get better. My standard disclaimer is that I don't own any of this apart from William Potter and the Weasley twins, all the rest is JK's. Hermione owns her car. Gilderoy Lockhart owns his leotards, they're nothing whatsoever to do with me. Please review. I need title ideas or even plot lines. It is now vital that my little car has petrol! If anyone knows of a garage in the Kingston-upon-Thames area that has some, let me know! I have to make a long journey this weekend and I'm worried I won't make it. Oh well, perhaps I should just stay home and write more fanfic.  



	3. The Party At Titherne Cottage

A/N  
  
Hello and welcome to part 3, or Chapter 2, as it will be rather confusingly known. Read the first two parts first if you haven't already. A huge thank you if you reviewed, and an exhortation to review this time if you didn't. Disclaimer ... look, it's all hers, okay? I don't like it but that's the way it goes.  
  
Chapter 2. In which the party gets underway, some old friends arrive, we find out what has been going on at Hogwarts, and Draco meets a mysterious stranger.  
  
From his vantage point in the bushes beside the back patio, Draco could clearly see everything that was going on inside the house. He was surprised to learn that Hermione and Harry appeared to be throwing some sort of party, for more and more people kept arriving. They were standing round in the living room, drinking glasses of what looked like mulled mead, and making merry. There appeared to be no sign of Harry, although Hermione was circulating with a bowl of peanuts. He slowed down the action with his omnioculars to get a better view. There was Neville Longbottom, or at least, someone who looked very much like him, arm in arm with Ginny Weasley, of all people! Draco was disgusted. Even though they were both from pureblood families, Draco thought Neville would have had better taste, the Weasley clan was growing at an exponential rate these days, and was now so large it had its own quarterly newsletter. In the corner, seated by the fire was someone who looked like a very elderly version of Albus Dumbledore, talking animatedly and waving his cane at a younger man with dark hair, whom Draco thought he recognised. There was a large black dog dozing by the fire.  
  
Draco was filled with an elated feeling. He had finally seen her. It had taken a while, but he had clapped eyes on her again. It must have been seven or eight years. She really hadn't changed much at all, though her hair was different. He smiled to himself.  
  
A rustling in the bushes behind him disturbed his reverie. Quick as a flash, his wand was out.  
  
"Lumos," he whispered. The wand's light cast an eerie glow through the undergrowth. Whatever had surprised him scuttled away, unseen. It was probably a badger, or maybe a gnome. All the same, Draco thought, perhaps I shouldn't outstay my welcome. It was not unlike Draco to get spooked easily ... some of the things he had seen and done would make an auror hide under the bedclothes with a torch. However for all his failings, he was not a stupid man, and he knew full well that he was not the world's most popular wizard either, and likely less popular still with the people in the house. There would be questions, most likely awkward ones, should he be caught. He had seen plenty, he knew where she lived, and surely that was enough for one night. It was time to go. He waved his wand again.  
  
There was a rush of air, and a popping noise as he rearranged himself. The man crouched in the bushes vanished. For a second all was silent and still. Then a small, white ferret burst out of the shrubbery, streaking for all it was worth away from the house.  
  
***********  
  
"What the hell was that?" asked Remus Lupin, staring out of the window, wine glass in hand.  
  
"What was it?" Dumbledore asked.  
  
"You didn't see it?"  
  
"My eyes are failing," reminded Dumbledore, tapping his cane on the floor.  
  
"Someone was rustling the bushes," said Remus, staring harder, trying to get a fix on whatever it was, "I think there's someone in the garden."  
  
He was almost tempted to go out and look, but never got his chance, for he was waylaid by Hermione carrying a tray of canapés.   
  
"Thank you dear," he said, restocking his plate, "Albus old fruit, canapé?"  
  
"Whatever would I want one of those for?" Dumbledore exclaimed, "It isn't raining!"  
  
Remus bent down nearer to the old Professor's ear, "No sir, a canapé. Something to eat."  
  
"Something to eat? Don't mind if I do," his eyes flitted eagerly across the proffered plate, and he stretched out his bony fingers to take one of the cocktail sausages, "Thank you Harry my boy."  
  
"I'm Hermione Professor."  
  
"That's right Harry," said Dumbledore, "and the Weasley boy, where's he?"  
  
"Ron isn't here yet Professor," said Hermione in her loud, speaking to deaf people voice, "I'll let you know when he arrives."  
  
"Thank you Harry, now run along, and whatever you do, stay in Gryffindor Tower tonight."  
  
"Yes Professor," said Hermione, "I'll do that," she smiled at Remus.  
  
"He was never quite the same after he lost the Hogwarts job," Remus confided sadly, "I think he knew his time was up."  
  
"It's probably for the best," said Hermione, "how is he these days?"  
  
"He won't tell me," said Remus, "and I'm in and out every day. His arthritis has been playing him up again."  
  
Dumbledore was taking tiny bites out of the sausage.  
  
"Seen Hagrid?" Hermione asked, changing the subject.  
  
Remus nodded, "Last time I saw him, he was having a peaceful enough retirement. He's aimless though, can't seem to find anything to occupy himself. I wouldn't be surprised if he starts breeding dragons again."  
  
Hermione shuddered at the thought. She checked her watch again. Harry's absence was starting to worry her. His hand on the grandfather clock in the hall still pointed to Travelling, and Hermione had given it a sharp kick just to make sure it hadn't stopped again.  
  
"Should Harry be here soon?" asked Remus, "I've something I want to give him."  
  
"He should have been here an hour ago," said Hermione, "I'm worried about him. He's got the kids too."  
  
Remus popped another canapé whole into his mouth, "I bet they'll have some stories to tell," he said, between chews.  
  
"I know they will," said Hermione, "we've been getting owls non stop this term. Snape says they've done this, Snape says they've done that."  
  
"Snape has been having a hard term," said Remus, "he still wants my job you see," one of Dumbledore's last acts as headmaster had been to re-appoint Remus as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.  
  
"What else has been happening?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Not a lot," Remus munched, "I'm sure William will tell you everything. He's kept us all on our toes you know, always up in my office on some trivial whatnot."  
  
"I'm ever so sorry," blushed Hermione, "I'll have words with him."  
  
"Don't bother," said Remus, "he's usually in on Snape's insistence, and it's always nice to see a new generation carrying the noble names of the Marauders into the future."  
  
Hermione didn't approve of this at all, but she kept quiet, and smiled at Remus.  
  
"Of course," Remus went on, "I can't punish the boy. I'm practically a relation."  
  
"Don't feel you have to try and avoid it," said Hermione, who was now of the belief that William Potter was getting away with murder somewhere. To be fair after all, most of the times Harry and Ron had been in trouble with Snape, it had been mostly their fault. She would most certainly be having words with William when he got home. She detached herself from Remus, and circulated amongst the assembled company. Most of them had arrived by now. There were the Longbottoms, Ginny and Neville, Neville having come straight from his work, Remus and Dumbledore, obviously, Fred and George, Percy and Patricia and their teenage daughter Georgina, Mr and Mrs Weasley, and Hermione's own parents, who were standing in a corner by the undecorated Christmas tree, looking a little perturbed at the presence of all these strange people in robes. Sirius was there somewhere too, though Hermione couldn't see him.  
  
There was the sound of car tyres crunching on gravel outside. Fred peered out of the window. A sleek, black Ford Mondeo had drawn up outside. Fred turned to Hermione.  
  
"What car does Harry drive?" he asked.  
  
"I think it's a BMW," said Hermione, "why?"  
  
"That won't be him then," said Fred, "some car just arrived."  
  
"Probably Ron if it isn't Harry," said Hermione, "let me see," she peered out of the window. Trunks were being unloaded from the boot of the car by shadowy figures.. Hermione caught a glimpse of Hedwig's ruffled feathers.  
  
"That's Harry all right," said Hermione, "he must have borrowed a ministry car."  
  
She ran out to the hall to open the front door. William's face was illuminated by the porch light as he struggled towards her, dragging his heavy school trunk.  
  
"What's going on? What's with all the cars?" were his first words to her. Hermione enveloped her son in a bear hug. She had still not become used to having to send him off on the Hogwarts Express every term ... it was still a wrench, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes.  
  
"Mmp, mm choking me!" squeaked William.  
  
"So good to see you," whispered Hermione. She held the boy at arm's length, and surveyed him, "What happened to your glasses?"  
  
"They got sat on," said William, "it's nothing."  
  
"You should have got them repaired," said Hermione.  
  
"It's nothing, honestly," protested William, "I'm fine, since you asked."  
  
"Sorry love, it's just, I'm so pleased to see you again," she paused, "what have you done with your father?"  
  
William looked around, "He's helping Andy and Mary with their trunks."  
  
"It's good to know," said Hermione, craning to get a better view. Harry was carrying Mary's trunk for her, straining visibly at the effort.  
  
"Good day?" she called.  
  
Harry dropped the trunk on the front step, "Nah, it was pants," he said, "kiss please," Hermione obliged, releasing William. The Weasleys pushed past and disappeared into the house with him.  
  
"How are they?" she asked.  
  
"Not bad," said Harry, "Will isn't talking to me. Something I said."  
  
"Did he want to stop for a burger?" asked Hermione.  
  
Harry nodded, "Just as you predicted."  
  
"You can't get them at Hogwarts," said Hermione, "I told you he'd miss them."  
  
"Vile things," said Harry, "is everyone here? There are loads of cars outside."  
  
Ever since the floo powder crisis, wizards all over the country had been reduced to using muggle transport, meaning many of them had been forced to learn to drive, a task at which they had not proved very adept. Ron had failed his driving test twice, the first time for hitting the kerb whilst reversing round a corner, and the second time for losing his temper and transfiguring the examiner into a small rabbit. Mr Weasley, on the other had taken to it like a duck to water, and was restoring a vintage Austin Healey in his back garden.  
  
"We're just waiting for Ron and Fleur," said Hermione, "then we can start decorating the tree."  
  
"Good, I've got some new stuff up my sleeve that the kids will love," said Harry.  
  
They were interrupted by a cough. William was standing in the doorway to the living room, arms folded.  
  
"What's up?" asked Harry.  
  
"Mum, what's Professor Lupin doing in our living room?"  
  
***********  
  
The door to the public bar of the Dog and Drainpipe swung open, admitting a gust of cold air, and a tall man with a limp. This did not disturb the muggle patrons, who were drinking heavily.  
  
Draco swaggered over to the bar, trying hard not to look like he was doing anything other than having a casual drink. He took a stool at the bar.  
  
"What'll be your pleasure young sir?" the barman asked.  
  
"What's very strong?" asked Draco, uneasily shifting his weight on the stool ... he was unfamiliar with muggle pubs.  
  
"You not from around here?" asked the barman.  
  
Draco shook his head.  
  
"Down from London?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"You want to try our local brew. It's an acquired taste mind."  
  
"I'll try one of those please," said Draco.  
  
The barman shrugged, and set to drawing the pint. He observed Draco with some interest. In his long black travelling cloak, with red silk lining, he looked like he had got lost on his way to a Dracula convention, and his hair was frankly unearthly. He couldn't work out if he'd just overdone the bleach or what.  
  
Draco, meanwhile, was running through the events of the evening in his mind. He had found Hermione at last. It was a major triumph. True, he had turned tail and fled at the slightest disturbance, but he contented himself in the knowledge that his father hadn't been around to witness the display of cowardice. Draco could plainly remember how cowardice had been dealt with in his childhood.  
  
"Probably why I'm warped," he muttered under his breath.  
  
"Say what?" said the barman, handing him his drink.  
  
"Oh, nothing," said Draco.  
  
"Please yourself."  
  
Draco gave a start as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked round, slowly. The hand gripping his shoulder belonged to a man in black hooded robes, at least, Draco assumed it was a man.  
  
"Draco Malfoy?" the voice came. It sounded like chalk scraping on slate.  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"I'd like a word with you."  
  
Draco turned back to the barman, but he was frozen, in the middle of pouring a shot of whisky for a customer. The liquid was also frozen, caught in mid pour. Looking round the pub, Draco saw no movement at all. The patrons were all caught in mid action ... some reading papers, some throwing darts at the board on the wall, another watching the football game on TV. Even the players on screen had stopped moving, caught in the act of celebrating a goal. It was the ultimate slow motion replay.  
  
"A simple trick," the voice said, "we can talk undisturbed."  
  
"What have you done to them?" whispered Draco.  
  
"I have merely ... slowed down time. They will have no memory of this. Now Draco, I have a proposition for you."  
  
Draco tried to pick up his pint glass, but it was stuck to the bar top, "What do you want?"  
  
"We have met before," said the stranger, "though perhaps you don't recognise me now."  
  
"I don't recognise you at all," said Draco.  
  
"But I recognised you straight away. You have changed, since last we met."  
  
"I have no recollection," said Draco.  
  
"Then you were a broken man, rejected by the world you thought had betrayed you, ready to end it all."  
  
Draco felt uneasy. Was it possible he was talking about the bridge? That had been one of the darkest moments of his life.  
  
"Who are you?" he breathed.  
  
"My name is not important. There are many," the man went on, "who would not dare speak it."  
  
Draco froze. Despite all the perverse values his father had tried to instil within him, a chill of fear swept up his spine.  
  
"Not..."  
  
The man evidently knew what he was about to say, for he chuckled, "No," he said, "not him. I see your years in Azkaban have not changed you. You always were a suspicious little ferret."  
  
"What do you know about ferrets?" hissed Draco.  
  
"There is very little of your life that I do not know Draco. When first you drew breath ... I was there, when you went to school ... I was there, all your humiliations, all your triumphs ... I was always there Draco. I was even there ... when you killed that muggle."  
  
"I don't know what you mean."  
  
"Come now Draco. Cowardice is not a desirable trait in a Malfoy. It sullies the bloodline, and I would not like to see that happen."  
  
"What do you want with me?" Draco whispered.  
  
"It is simple. You have ... information I need, I have ... things that you do."  
  
"What things?"  
  
"Weren't you always hungry for influence? Isn't that why you befriended Crabbe and Goyle?"  
  
"I may have been. But I moved on."  
  
"Come now Draco. What a man wants and feels in his heart can never change. However much he may deny it. I always knew that, and look at me, I was destroyed, I was a broken man, rejected by my family, just like you. But I found one who could give me the power I lusted for, one who had given it to me before, and would give it me again."  
  
Draco shivered in his grip.   
  
"Now, I take it we can do business Draco. It is simple. I want you to deliver one to me."  
  
"One what?"  
  
"Just one person. I want him ... to make me complete. You, I feel, can get close to him. You know him. In turn, I can satisfy your need for power."  
  
"Who?" asked Draco.  
  
"You may remember him, you were at school together. You could say he was your nemesis, the Moriarty to your Holmes, the Lex Luthor to your Superman."  
  
"Potter?"  
  
"No, not he," the man went on.  
  
A/N That's it. Ha! I cliff hangered you all! In the next chapter. Will Hermione's dinner be well received? Where the hell are Ron and Fleur? What has happened to the other Potter child? And whom does the mysterious stranger want delivered to him? What is more, will Draco agree to help? I disclaimed already but I'll do it again, this is all JK's, apart from William, Andy and Mary, who belong to me. The mysterious stranger might belong to me too, I'm giving nothing away. If you have enjoyed this part, please review with your ideas for exactly where this could go, as well as ideas for a better title than Redemption, which I now think sucks. It's always a pleasure to find out what people think, and I'll take into account all your views. 'Till next time!  



	4. The Man In The Pub

A/N  
  
This is the fourth part, even though it's only Chapter 3. If you did not heed my summary, and read the first parts before, then do so, or this will make no sense. Can I be bothered to disclaim this? Yeah, of course. It's all JK's apart from the characters I made up. Thanks if you reviewed Chapter 2, your feedback is, as ever, greatly appreciated.  
  
Chapter 3. In which Fleur spills the beans, and poor Draco is put through an ordeal he'd rather forget.  
  
Harry raised his wand, and pointed it at the Christmas tree. The guests crowded closer round, all except Dumbledore, who was cleaning his dentures with a toothpick. Harry's Christmas decorations had long been the stuff of legend in the circles he moved in, which tended to be very exclusive circles.  
  
"Nativitatus," he said, closing his eyes and hoping for the best.  
  
William and Rebecca Potter gasped. Harry opened his eyes.  
  
"Would you look at that?" said Remus.  
  
"Amazing," said Ginny.  
  
"Awesome," said Fred.  
  
The tree was covered in bright, twinkling lights of every colour in the spectrum. Thick wreaths of tinsel wrapped themselves around the branches. Then, there were the ornaments. And what ornaments they were! Reindeer, sleighs, stables, angels, the whole nine yards, all glistening and sparkling in the soft light. At the top was the crowning glory, an angel, complete with halo and robes of white silk. The angel looked down at them, and winked at Harry.  
  
"Blimey," said Harry. He was lost for words.  
  
"I think I smell burning," cried Hermione, spoiling the moment for everybody. She grabbed Harry by the forearm, and pulled him out of the room.  
  
"Well I think it's rather special," said Molly Weasley, peering at the branches. Mary was standing next to her.  
  
"Look at that," said Mary, pointing. Three kings on camels were making their way along one of the branches.  
  
"Incredible," said Molly, moving in closer to get a better look. The kings waved at her.  
  
"It's perfect," said Rebecca, her mouth wide open.  
  
Remus wheeled Dumbledore over, "What do you think sir?" he asked, loudly.  
  
Dumbledore didn't appear to be paying much attention to the tree, being much more absorbed with his new toothpick.  
  
"I have a little bit of salmon stuck that I can't quite reach," complained Dumbledore.  
  
"That's nice Albus, but take a look at the tree."  
  
"What tree?" Dumbledore looked around the room, as if startled.  
  
"This one," said Remus, pointing to the tree.  
  
Dumbledore's mouth fell open, "I, I say," he began, "that's really awfully good. Top notch stuff. Was it you Remus?"  
  
"Was it me what?"  
  
"Did you do this? Oh, I say," Dumbledore was veritably quivering with undisguised excitement, "look at the tiny little angels. They're ever so sweet."  
  
"It was Harry," said Remus, "he did this."  
  
"Harry who?"  
  
"Harry Potter, you remember Harry?"  
  
"Yes, are we at his house then?"  
  
Remus nodded, "Yes," he said.  
  
"Then where are the Dursleys?"  
  
"They've ... gone away for a while," said Remus. Rebecca, Andy and William were standing nearby, watching them with interest. Remus beckoned them over, "Albus, I want you to meet some people."  
  
"Who are they then?"  
  
"This is Harry's son, William, and his daughter, Rebecca, and this is Andrew Weasley. They go to Hogwarts too."  
  
"Do they by Jove? Well, I'll be buggered," said Dumbledore, "who are you then?"  
  
"Remus Lupin, you remember me?"  
  
"Wonderful," Dumbledore grinned with pleasure, "I thought Remus Lupin was at Hogwarts?"  
  
"I am," said Remus, "I'm a teacher now."  
  
"Nonsense," said Dumbledore, "Remus Lupin is a second former. All this is too much for me. What's for dinner."  
  
Remus nodded to the children, "Chicken, I think," said Rebecca.  
  
"You're Harry's daughter?" Dumbledore extended a finger, and prodded her on the chest. Rebecca nodded.  
  
"Yes sir," she said.  
  
"Well, doesn't that just take the biscuit. Of all the things. Tell me, Rebecca, your mother, does she cook?"  
  
"Very well sir," said Rebecca.  
  
"Good, I'm hungry."  
  
As if on cue, Hermione came back into the room, banging on a little gong, "Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls," she began, "if you'd like to make your way through to the dining room, dinner is now served."  
  
"I'm very hungry," quavered Dumbledore, as the guests started to file slowly out of the room.  
  
"Can I push him sir?" asked William.  
  
"Go ahead," said Remus, "and I'm off duty, you don't need to call me sir."  
  
Dumbledore turned to observe William as he grasped the handles of his bath chair, "Take care young man," he said, "it has a tendency to backfire."  
  
"Ignore him," said Remus.  
  
"Who are you then?" Dumbledore asked William.  
  
"William Potter sir."  
  
"Harry's son?"  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"How extraordinary, I thought Harry Potter was a second former," said Dumbledore, looking confused.  
  
"I'm a second year," said William, "so's Andy."  
  
"Who's Andy then?"  
  
"My friend," said William, "this is him," Andy smiled at Dumbledore.  
  
"Well I'll be. You're the spitting image of Ronald Weasley young man," said Dumbledore, evidently pleased at his powers of deduction.  
  
They wheeled him across the hall, and into the dining room, where most of the rest of the guests were already seated. Dumbledore was duly slotted into place between Remus and Hermione, grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of food, and he was not the only one. At the top of the table, Fleur was watching the roast chickens as if they contained the secret of life itself. Occasionally she would lick her lips, and a little cooing sound would escape from her mouth.  
  
"Are we all here?" asked Harry, taking up the carving wand.  
  
There was a whooshing sound as Sirius turned back into himself, "I know I am," he said.  
  
"We're one short," said Hermione, looking round the table, "where's Ron got to?"  
  
Ron returned from the lavatory, wiping his hands dry on his robes. Fleur smiled at him as he took her place next to her.  
  
"Sorry," he said, "call of nature."  
  
"Thank you Ron," said George, "I'd never have guessed."  
  
"Talking about guessing, guess who I met in the Bull today," said Fleur, as Harry waved his wand at the chickens, and shouted 'carvatus!'  
  
"Who?" asked Ron, taking a sip of wine, "Have you been consorting with strange men again?"  
  
"Ron," exclaimed Fleur, running a hand through his hair, "you know how men are ... drawn to me."  
  
Ron unfolded his napkin, and nodded gravely.  
  
"Who did you meet then?" asked Sirius, looking interested.  
  
"Draco Malfoy," she said.  
  
Ron coughed loudly. Harry dropped a chicken leg on the tablecloth, and Hermione looked scandalised.  
  
"Draco eh?" said Harry, forcing a smile, "I was just thinking about him earlier."  
  
Ron glared at him, "What did Malfoy want?" he asked, "more to the point, what the hell is he doing in Titherne?"  
  
Fleur smiled, "Now, it's interesting you should say that..."  
  
***********  
  
"Who then?" asked Draco. The stranger's grip was cold on his shoulder.  
  
"Are you aware of the existence of ... Ron Weasley?" asked the stranger, pronouncing the last word slowly, enunciating every letter.  
  
Draco couldn't help but nod, even though the very presence of the stranger in the bar was making him feel sick.  
  
"Why do you want him?" asked Draco.  
  
The stranger removed his hand from Draco's shoulder, and struck him across the side of the face. His fingers felt like ice where they touched Draco's skin. He looked up at the mirror above the bar. There were three long red marks on his cheek.  
  
"Do not make me angry Draco."  
  
"I was only..."  
  
"I reveal my motives to no man," said the stranger, "least of all a treacherous little ferret like you Draco. Do not make me angry again."  
  
Draco felt goose pimples rising on his arms. Thoughts were whirling through his brain, and he felt unprotected, vulnerable. Somehow this stranger had the power to make him feel like he had done when he had been a child, wringing his hands, waiting for another punishment from his fearsome father.  
  
"I'll try not to," said Draco, putting his hand to his cheek. The stranger returned his hand to Draco's shoulder.  
  
"Do we, have an understanding?"  
  
"About what?"  
  
"A trade, a fair deal, an exchange," said the stranger, his voice harsh as ever, "I get what I want, that is, this Weasley, and you get what I can give you?"  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Power beyond your wildest dreams Draco. The world will be yours to control, to conquer, even to destroy, should you wish it."  
  
Draco was unconvinced, "What if I refuse."  
  
There was a rustling as the stranger reached into his robes, and next instant, Draco felt what was unmistakably the tip of a wand prodded into the small of his back.  
  
"Crucio," the stranger whispered.  
  
***********  
  
Hermione stared at Fleur in disbelief.   
  
"What do you mean, he was looking for me?"  
  
"Exactly what I said," said Fleur, "he seemed most insistent about it."  
  
"What could Draco Malfoy want with you Hermi?" asked Harry, passing plates loaded with chicken around the table, "Help yourselves to vegetables everyone," he added.  
  
"I couldn't possibly imagine," said Hermione, though recollection was slowly dawning on her.  
  
"Is there something you're not telling us Hermione?" asked Sirius, who looked enthralled.  
  
"Unless he's, well, he, you know we went out together for a while?"  
  
"When?" asked Remus. This came as news to him.  
  
"After Hogwarts, for about six months. We went on holiday together, round Europe, and to the Caribbean," said Hermione.  
  
"You didn't slee..." began Ron, but a poke in the ribs from Fleur silenced him.  
  
Hermione shook her head, "No Ron, nothing like that happened, though we shared a sleeping bag one night in the Tyrol."  
  
William and Rebecca's mouths were open as wide as they would go. Sirius reached for the pepper mill.  
  
"Then what happened?" asked Remus.  
  
"We split. It was, a bit messy," said Hermione, "his father found out he was dating a ... mudblood you see."  
  
Neville frowned, "That bastard," he exclaimed. Harry shot him a death ray glance that silenced him.  
  
"Then, about three years later, after I'd had William, when I was pregnant with Rebecca, he came round to our house."  
  
"When we were living in London?" asked Harry. Hermione nodded.  
  
"His father had just died, I think he rather hoped to get back together again," she went on. The entire company, with the exception of Albus Dumbledore, who was chewing on a carrot, were hanging on her every word.  
  
"And you?"  
  
"Told him ... in no uncertain terms, I might add, to get lost," said Hermione.  
  
"Well I'll be," exclaimed Remus.  
  
"You never told me about this," said Harry.  
  
"I, never ... felt the need, I guess," said Hermione, "I never knew what happened to him after that. I never even thought about him till Fleur brought it up just now."  
  
"Well," said Sirius, "that was enlightening. Will someone pass the cabbage?"  
  
***********  
  
Draco stared up into the eyes of his assailant. They were haunted eyes, full of anger, pain, and fear. He was lying on the floor of the pub, having slipped and fallen from his stool.  
  
"You didn't much care for that, did you Draco?" the stranger said.  
  
Draco shook his head.  
  
"Would you care for me to get angry with you again?"  
  
Draco shook his head. The stranger took a step forward. Draco still could not see his face, it was in shadow from his voluminous cloak.  
  
"Let us not fight again Draco," said the stranger. He proffered his hand, but Draco didn't take it. There was a look of pure, unadulterated hatred on his face. He could still feel twinges of pain from the Cruciatus Curse. Nobody had ever used that on him before. He suddenly understood why it was so feared.  
  
"I shall trouble you no longer Draco," said the stranger, tucking his wand back into his robes, "you have vexed me, and I have no wish to be angry with you. I shall return for you though. You may be assured of that."  
  
With these words, he turned, and stalked out of the pub.  
  
"Are you okay mate?" asked the barman, peering over the bar at Draco, who was still lying spread-eagled on the floor.  
  
"Wha ... what happened?" coughed Draco, getting to his feet, and dusting off his cloak. The pub had come back to life again, in the background the roar of the crowd from the TV could once more be heard. There was a thwack as a dart struck home.  
  
"Dunno mate. One minute, there you were, the next, you'd fallen off your stool. Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
"I'll be fine," lied Draco, "I'll be fine."  
  
A/N  
  
Whew, that part was hard to write. Thanks to all my reviewers. As you can see, I'm churning this fic out at a rate of knots now that I have become very absorbed in it. Actually, I'm six chapters ahead of you, and I know what's happening! I know the answers! To Kayara Impossibly Long Middle Name That I Can't Remember Potter, who was desperate to see Sirius in this, happy now? Don't worry, he'll be back, in a big way. 10 points to whoever is first to guess whom Draco's new acquaintance is. Why is he so intent on getting hold of Ron? Can Fleur keep her big mouth shut? Above all, what will happen next? These questions will be answered soon. Keep the reviews coming, I love reading them!  



	5. Dreams

A/N  
  
Phew, another part is ready for you to read! I made myself promise I'd write longer ones, so hopefully this will be okay. Once again, a HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed. However, I can see how many people are reading the stories too, and statistically, not many of you are reviewing. So come on, even if you think it's a load of crap! Obviously, the brilliant Harry Potter series does not belong to me, though if I put my glasses on, I kinda look a bit like him. If I was eight years younger I could have auditioned to be in the movie. Damn! (stalks off in a huff). Anyway as you can see this is now a mystery story, so a thousand apologies if you found this by selecting only mystery stories in the little genre box, for the other parts, look in general, but enough of my rambling already ... here's Chapter 4.  
  
Chapter 4. In which the partygoers go their separate ways, Harry and Hermione go to bed, and Draco passes a troubled night.  
  
It was getting on for eleven thirty, and the Potter's pre-Christmas party was beginning to break up. Sated on Hermione's delicious chicken, Harry's stodgy pudding, received especially well by Fleur, and of course, on a selection of the finest wizard cheeses and cups of coffee, they bid their farewells, wished one and all a merry Christmas, and went their separate ways.  
  
Harry and Hermione stood on the doorstep, watching the tail lights of Fred and George's battered old Volkswagen receding into the distance. It had dropped below freezing, and it looked like the promised snow would soon start falling. Hermione closed the door. Neville and Ginny were standing in the hall, already wearing their heavy doeskin overcoats, Neville holding two large leather suitcases, and Ginny, a bulky plastic bag containing her Christmas presents from Molly and Arthur. She and Neville would be spending Christmas in Paris, and their train left London the following morning.  
  
"Are you sure you don't want to stop the night?" asked Hermione, her voice full of concern.  
  
"We'd better not," said Neville, "we've got rooms booked at the station hotel, and we want to be at Waterloo early tomorrow."  
  
"It's your choice," said Hermione.  
  
"We'd better go," said Ginny, she gave Hermione a hug, "thanks for dinner. Have a lovely Christmas."  
  
"You too. Paris is meant to be so romantic at this time of year. I almost wish I was going with you," said Hermione, "send me a postcard. And I want to hear absolutely everything when you get back."  
  
Ginny nodded, "I'll send you a picture of the Eiffel Tower."  
  
Neville shook Harry's hand, "Thanks for everything old chap," he said.  
  
"No problem mate," smiled Harry, "always a pleasure, never a chore."  
  
"We'll have to have you over in the New Year," said Ginny, "we've almost finished decorating the flat now."  
  
"That'd be nice," said Harry, kissing Ginny on both cheeks, "well, see you guys."  
  
"Bye," said Neville. He turned to Ginny, "Ready darling?"  
  
"Ready," answered Ginny. The two of them withdrew their wands, and in a flash, had apparated.  
  
"I think that's the last," said Harry, turning to Hermione, "shall we clear up now, or do you want to make the kids do it in the morning?"  
  
"We'll leave it," yawned Hermione, "I simply cannot be arsed."  
  
Harry yawned as well, "I think I'm going to bed," he said.  
  
"Shall I bring you up a glass of milk?"  
  
Harry nodded, "That would be brilliant."  
  
"Go on then, you get first dibs on the bathroom."  
  
Harry trudged wearily upstairs to the bathroom. He was totally frazzled. He had worked six whole months without a holiday, and the strain of his work was finally telling on him. There were nearly always heavy bags under his eyes, he had lost weight, which was hard for him to do, being as skinny as he was. The other morning he had noticed a grey hair, but he hadn't told Hermione about it.  
  
He checked himself in the bathroom mirror, and muttered, "Jesus, you're a mess Harry."  
  
"Too right," said the mirror, "and don't think Hermione hasn't noticed your grey hairs yet."  
  
Harry ignored the mirror, and squeezed toothpaste onto his brush. Two whole weeks of freedom from tomorrow, he thought with pleasure. At long last he'd have some quality time to spend with William and Rebecca. Hell, William hadn't seen him since September, and Rebecca was never usually awake when he left for work, and was usually in bed when he got home. It was surprising either of his kids recognised him. All their lives they had been shunted to endless childminders, expensive private nurseries and day care schemes. They had even brought in an au pair, a Swedish witch from Uppsala, but she had not lasted long. So ruminating, Harry finished brushing his teeth, and spat into the washbasin. He could hear Hermione's footsteps coming upstairs.  
  
"You okay Harry?" she asked, as he came into the bedroom, "you look a bit depressed."  
  
"I think I might be," said Harry, "I'm missing my kids."  
  
Hermione looked puzzled, "They're right next door, what's the problem?"  
  
"I think I'm missing their whole lives," said Harry, "I feel guilty, that's all."  
  
"You're not missing their whole lives," said Hermione, "you have nothing to feel guilty about. It's not your fault your work is so time consuming."  
  
"It is though," said Harry, sitting down on the bed, and removing his shoes, "I didn't have to become an auror. I could have played quidditch."  
  
Hermione shook her head, "We discussed this Harry. You couldn't possibly have gone on playing professionally. Not after your injury," she was referring to the serious tendon injury that Harry had received during his third season as seeker for the Guildford Griffins, and just two weeks after his first international game for England, a World Cup qualifier against Canada. It had been too unfair. All the medi-wizards at St Mungo's had been unable to help, and with great reluctance, and to the disappointment of his legions of fans, Harry had quit. His white and blue England robes were still hanging in his wardrobe.  
  
"It's just too much," he said, "I think I'm going grey before my time."  
  
"I hadn't noticed," lied Hermione, "hop into bed, I won't be a minute."  
  
She left Harry to his mid-life misery, and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed.  
  
Harry was sitting up in bed when she got back, trimming his toenails. She undressed silently, pulled on her night-gown, and got into bed beside him. She put her arm around his shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.  
  
"Worry about that in the morning," she said, "are you really that depressed?"  
  
Harry put down his penknife, "Really," he said. He removed his glasses, and placed them on the bedside table. As ever, Hermione was amazed how different he looked without them.  
  
"Tell me about it, perhaps I can help," said Hermione.  
  
"I already did. I think I'm getting old," said Harry.  
  
"You've got years left in you," said Hermione, "you won't even be drawing a pension for another thirty years."  
  
"That's just it Hermione, I already have a pension fund," said Harry.  
  
"What else is bothering you?"  
  
"Nothing really, I suppose it's just a lot of little things."  
  
"Well, you can't argue with the little things," said Hermione.  
  
"It was, seeing Dumbledore today."  
  
"What about him?" asked Hermione, "He seemed very well didn't he?"  
  
"Oh, come on Hermi. He's going senile ... he's got more bats in the belfry than Professor Trelawney. I think even he knows he's not long for this Earth."  
  
"Don't say that Harry."  
  
"He's hardly lucid anymore," said Harry, "and I remember him, all those years ago. He seemed strong then. It seemed he would always be there, hovering in the background. It was only when I left Hogwarts that I realised how, frail he'd always been, how small he seemed."  
  
"Harry, anybody seems strong to an eleven year old, and he always has been strong for you. He was like a Father to you."  
  
"I don't want to end up like that Hermi."  
  
Hermione lay down, and fluffed up the feather duvet. She looked at Harry, "You don't have to."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"You've got me," she said, "come on, someone needs cheering up big time, and I've got the ideal solution."  
  
She turned off the light.  
  
***********  
  
Draco's whole body still ached from the cruciatus curse as he relaxed in the giant bathtub in his room back at the Bull. He had poured in all the little sachets of bubble bath, and run the water until it was practically overflowing. He rearranged his inflatable bath pillow, and punched his rubber duck playfully on the nose. It was currently floating about somewhere in the region of his knees, which stuck up out of the water like two volcanic islands. That, thought Draco, was one major disadvantage of being so tall, you could never find a bath big enough.  
  
He ran through the events of the evening. He had left the pub after finishing his pint, and headed straight back to the hotel. Whoever the stranger was, Draco did not intend to help him at all. True enough, he didn't like Ron Weasley ... at the end of the day, who did? But all the same, to deliver him into the hands of someone who was prepared to use the forbidden curses so lightly. Hell, even he wouldn't stoop that low.  
  
The pain had been indescribable, he thought. It had been, so complete, so effective, that all he had wanted at that point was to curl up and die, for it to be no more. This unsettled Draco considerably. His father had always punished cowardice, so it had been his nature from an early age to stand up for himself, to never let down his guard for an instant, and, he reflected, it was probably this that had earned him his reputation at Hogwarts. Now he had seen how easy it was to writhe on the floor, begging for mercy, begging for it to stop. Now he had seen what that was like, he began to understand just how Voldemort's victims must have felt. The Potters, the Longbottoms, all the others, Cedric Diggory, Bertha Jorkins, even his own father, for it had been Voldemort who had got him in the end. Draco had never heard much of how his father died, although he had been told in Azkaban that it had been instant. That meant Avada Kedavra. There was no defence against that, no second chance, no parley. It was as final as what it was ... death.  
  
Now Draco thought back to the lowest hours of his life ... that fateful day in London. He hadn't meant to kill the muggle, just scare him. The court hadn't seen it that way however. He could remember their jeering, how his mother had wept in the spectator's gallery as Minister Fudge had passed judgement. Azkaban. The Dementors had led him away. He could remember his own screams, his howls, his protests, but the Dementors had been impervious to it. After the second night had passed, he had stopped crying, and spent most of his time squatting on his haunches in the corner of the cell, rocking backwards and forwards.  
  
He woke up. The bath water had cooled considerably, and most of the bubbles had gone. Slowly, for he was still in some pain, he hoisted himself out of the bath, and wrapped a towel around his slender frame.  
  
The hotel room was still and quiet. Outside, the High Street was deserted, save for parked cars, and a black cat stalking down the pavement. Draco closed the curtains, and switched on the light.  
  
Wave after wave of cold fear swept through his body. He knew he had to get out of there. First thing in the morning, he resolved to check out as soon as he could. Perhaps the further he got from this mysterious stranger, the safer he would be, even though in his heart he knew it was a vain hope. He dried himself, pulled on a pair of boxer shorts, and climbed into bed. He was shivering. He wrapped the duvet tight around himself, and lay down amidst the fluffy pillows. He was asleep within seconds. Yet his dreams were not pleasant ones.  
  
"I know what you're thinking Draco," that voice again, the chalk on slate, scraping, pounding, inside his skull.  
  
"You can't hide from me. I know your every thought, your every desire, hope, wish and dream. I have always been with you. Remember? When first..."  
  
"I drew breath," said Draco, "you were there. Wherever I went ... there you were. Whenever, wherever, whatever."  
  
"That's right Draco. So why do you think you can run away?"  
  
"I ... don't know," admitted Draco.  
  
"You can't, you can't run from me, and you can't hide from me. Because, you know I will always be with you. You'll have to kill me first, and I don't believe you have the guts."  
  
"I know I have the guts," growled Draco.  
  
The voice laughed, "Ah, but I know you don't. I know that when you took your father's beatings without flinching, you were crying inside. You were never anything but a stinking, coward, a stinking, pathetic little coward, who would run home to mummy bawling his head off, if another child dared so much as rebuke you. Your so called, tough persona. It was always an act. And you need to be taught a lesson, Draco Malfoy."  
  
Draco stirred fitfully, "Father?" he called, "is that you?"  
  
The stranger removed the hood of his cloak, the face that was revealed was not that of his father, which even in the knowledge of what that man had inflicted upon the boy Draco, he still found a source of comfort. Instead, he saw a face so hideous, so indescribably ugly, so horribly deformed, that Draco screamed. He opened his mouth wide, and let out a scream. It was as if all the rage of all his thirty five years was pouring out of his body, all the indignity, all the humiliation, all the bitterness. But yet, as he screamed, he became slowly aware that no sound was coming out of his mouth. Petrified, Draco put his hands to his throat, but could feel nothing there. Now the stranger was laughing, the cruellest, most mocking laugh he had ever heard. And now he spoke again.  
  
"You're a pathetic, worthless turd Malfoy. You're a stinking, low life coward," this in Potter's voice, but at the same time, not Potter. Now his father, "A Malfoy looks pain straight in the eye Draco. He never flinches, he never winces, for such is the mark of a coward, and such are all cowards doomed to die," his father's face faded away, to be replaced by the grinning visage of Alastor Moody, shouting as he bounced Draco, whom he had turned into a ferret, repeatedly on the floor, and to Draco's horror, the others were looking on, and they were laughing. Potter, Weasley and Granger. They were all there. Each of them laughing. That same laugh.  
  
"Coward," hissed Ron.  
  
"Don't ... do ... that ... again," he heard Moody's voice, but as he repeated those words, the noise of the laughter was fading, fading fast.  
  
A/N  
  
Ow, blooming heck! How can I say I don't know where this is going? This has to be the darkest piece, I've ever written, and it wouldn't let me stop writing! I was going to wait till Sunday night to post this, but I just had to put it up straight away! I don't intend for Draco to get off lightly here. In my opinion, he has a lot of redeeming to do, despite being my favourite character. I'll try to end on an upbeat note though, by asking some more posers. Just what will Draco do next? What did Harry and Hermione get up to after she turned out the light? Who is the mysterious stranger, and is he mine, or JK's? I invite your guesses, and I also plead for reviews. Come on people!  



	6. The Puerus Curse

A/N  
  
Disclaimer: not mine, JK's, OK?  
Again, thanks for the reviews. If you read this and enjoyed it, then why not write one? It doesn't take a minute, and I always go back to read them, and usually take what people say into account. The results of the mysterious stranger competition will be revealed within the next few chapters, so watch this space, and keep guessing. A mention in the A/N and the adulation of hundreds of fanfic readers goes to the winner. Thanks to all the people who reviewed so far. Here's the next part.  
  
Chapter 5. In which the cloaked stranger casts a spell on Draco, and the Potters are taken by surprise by a find in the woods.  
  
December 23rd dawned bright, clear, and very, very chilly. High clouds scudded across a deep blue sky, borne eastwards on the wind. The countryside was covered in a carpet of pure white snow, through which the muggle milkman struggled up to the front door of the Potter's house, holding their milk bottles in his frozen hands. His breath condensed before him.  
  
The door opened as he was collecting the empties. It was Hermione, wearing a thick woollen dressing gown and bunny rabbit slippers.  
  
"Morning," said the milkman.  
  
"Morning Dave," Hermione yawned, "cold out isn't it?"  
  
The milkman laughed, "You're telling me. I've not even had any breakfast yet. Can't wait to get back to the depot, have a cup of tea."  
  
Harry called out from the kitchen, where he was grilling toast, "Who's there?"  
  
"Just the milkman love," called Hermione.  
  
The milkman handed Hermione her bottles, and touched his cap respectfully, "Will you be wanting extra over Christmas?" he asked.  
  
Hermione shook her head, "No, just the usual," she said, "could you leave us a quart of orange juice tomorrow?"  
  
"No worries," said the milkman. He turned, and walked back down the drive to where his float was parked. Hermione closed the door, and took the milk through into the kitchen. Harry was pouring tea into large, chipped mugs.  
  
"I thought we could make a snow wizard today," said Harry.  
  
"The kids would like that," said Hermione.  
  
"I thought you would too. We could have Ron and Fleur over, make an afternoon of it."  
  
Hermione spread butter thickly onto her toast, "Are we going to Sirius' for Christmas day?"  
  
Harry sipped his tea, "As far as I know. I thought you'd made the arrangements."  
  
"Just checking," said Hermione. She glanced at the kitchen clock, "hmm, twenty past nine, I wonder if the kids are up?"  
  
***********  
  
Draco shoved his case roughly into the boot of his rental car. He knew he had to get far, far away from here, he didn't care where he ended up ... he just had to be somewhere where this mysterious cloaked figure, whoever he might be, could not touch him, or hurt him, in any way.  
  
He slammed shut the boot lid, and walked round to the driver's door, his shoes scrunching in the clean white snow. He opened the door, and climbed in. It was then that he glanced over to the passenger seat.  
  
"Good morning Draco."  
  
The colour drained from his face. He was still wearing the cloak, shielding his face. He projected an air of menace.  
  
"I do hope you weren't trying to escape me, Draco," he went on, "don't you remember your dream?"  
  
Draco mouthed the words silently, "Whenever, wherever, whatever."  
  
"Exactly. I thought you would remember it. It takes an iron constitution, Draco, to forget a dream such as that, and I know you are possessed of no such thing."  
  
"What do you want with me?"  
  
"Exactly what I said. I want Weasley, and I want you, to get him for me."  
  
"But why me, I haven't even seen Ron for seventeen years!"  
  
The stranger raised his hand, and slapped Draco hard across the cheek. Once again, his fingers felt like ice, raising livid marks on his skin.  
  
"You lie to me Draco. You lie. Don't lie to me. None has got away with it before, and I do not intend for you to be the first."  
  
"I haven't seen him," moaned Draco, pitifully, "I'm not the one you want. You want Potter, why don't you go torture him?"  
  
"Potter is of no use to me," said the stranger, lowering the tone of his voice, "and if he was, he would have been delivered to be long before now. No, it is Weasley I want, and it is Weasley whom I shall get. Is it not so Draco?"  
  
Draco didn't reply.  
  
"You will drive me Draco," he said, leaning back in his seat, "we will talk as you drive."  
  
"What if I refuse?" said Draco, whose right hand was already on the door handle.  
  
"You didn't want to vex me last night. Believe me, you do not want to vex me again. I can see what you're doing, by the way."  
  
Draco released the door handle.  
  
"That's better, and now," he reached once more into the folds of his cloak, and withdrew the wand, "keys, in the ignition."  
  
Draco took the keys from his pocket, and put them in the ignition.  
  
"Turn on the engine."  
  
Draco did.  
  
"Thus, you merely confirm to me your cowardice. A better man would have resisted me. A better man would have risked the Cruciatus Curse."  
  
Draco stared at the stranger, his eyes filled with hatred, his mouth curled into an ugly scowl.  
  
"Now drive," he said. Draco felt the wand, stuck into his side. He put the car in gear, and reversed out of the parking space.  
  
"Turn left," said the stranger.  
  
Draco drove up to the gate of the car park. A milk float trundled past, its occupant whistling to himself.  
  
"Left."  
  
Draco turned left. There was very little traffic on the roads, it being so early in the morning.  
  
"Where are you taking me?" growled Draco, through gritted teeth.  
  
"We're just, going for a little drive," said the stranger.  
  
Draco slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt.  
  
"Draco," the stranger said, in a warning tone of voice.  
  
Draco tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He set the handbrake, and turned off the engine.  
  
"Do you disobey me Draco?"  
  
"I ... don't want to do this," said Draco.  
  
The stranger was evidently puzzled, "Why ever not? Do you know what I am offering you Draco? I'm offering you ultimate control ... over the entire wizard world."  
  
"I don't want that," said Draco, "I never wanted that. All I wanted was a quiet life. I didn't want to cause any hassle to anyone, I just wanted to settle down, go to work. Be normal. Maybe there'd have been kids somewhere. I don't know, but what I do know, is I don't want the world, I don't want you near me, and I want no part in your scheme. I just ... want you to let me go."  
  
The stranger surveyed Draco scornfully, "Have we quite finished Draco?" without waiting for a reply, he went on, "Well, after that little outburst, I can see it is going to take more than some, gentle persuasion to bend you to my will. And I thought you were a coward, that you would be easy to control. Perhaps I was wrong, after all, even I have been wrong."  
  
Draco shivered.  
  
"And there was I, thinking you didn't want me to get angry with you again."  
  
"What are you going to do to me?"  
  
"Maybe, a more extreme punishment this time. I think we'll start with ... crucio."  
  
Draco's muscles locked, he was paralysed in his seat, his limbs twitched, and he felt such agony, in every nerve of his body ran pain of a magnitude beyond that which any reasonable person could be expected to endure. He opened his mouth wide to scream, but as it had been the night before, no sound came out. His mind had shut down, and once again, he wanted nothing more than to be dead, and forgotten.  
  
The stranger raised his wand again, and mouthed some unheard words. The pain subsided. Draco felt his body relaxing. He could tell tears of pain and rage were pouring down his cheeks.  
  
"You disgust me Draco."  
  
"Please, please ... just let me go," Draco whispered, he couldn't stop himself from crying.  
  
"You disgust me. I never thought I'd see the day when a Malfoy cried."  
  
"Then," gasped Draco, "maybe I don't want to be a Malfoy anymore."  
  
"But I think you do. Are you sure you wouldn't like another go?" he raised his wand again.  
  
"No ... please, no!"  
  
"Snivelling little brat," scoffed the stranger, but he lowered his wand anyway, "you're not worthy to even bear your name. Think of your ancestors Draco."  
  
Draco sniffed, blinking back fresh floods of tears.  
  
"Perhaps we need to punish you further."  
  
"No," said Draco.  
  
"I think we do. I think we need to teach you a lesson you will never forget."  
  
He raised his wand.  
  
"Not..." began Draco, his thoughts turning to the one time he had seen Avada Kedavra used, by Professor Moody, in his fourth year at Hogwarts.  
  
"Puerus," whispered the stranger.  
  
***********  
  
It was getting on for two in the afternoon. Ron, Fleur, Harry and Hermione were walking across Titherne Common, leaving deep tracks in the snow behind them, whilst the children, dressed warmly in their winter coats, hats and gloves sprinted ahead towards the little copse by the railway line, Rebecca a little behind the others, shrieking, "Wait for me!" at the top of her voice.  
  
"I love the snow," said Fleur, dreamily.  
  
Ron rested his head on her shoulder, "Me too."  
  
Hermione smiled, and held tightly to Harry's gloved hand.  
  
"I thought we ought to make some snow wizards," said Harry.  
  
"What a good idea," said Ron, "I haven't made one of those since I was a kid."  
  
Fleur laughed, but Ron appeared to have been seized by some childlike enthusiasm, "No, let's," he said.  
  
"What about the kids?" said Hermione.  
  
"They'll be fine," said Ron, "don't be such a stick in the mud Hermi."  
  
Harry was already crouched down in the snow, using his hands as makeshift spades.  
  
"Come on then," he called. Ron crouched down next to him, and began to shovel snow furiously, he looked like a small dog.  
  
"I'll just watch," said Fleur.  
  
"Oh come on," said Hermione, "help me make a head. We'll need kindling too if we want to make a broomstick for it."  
  
Harry and Ron were patting the snow into a wide base. Hermione set to rolling a giant snowball for a head. Fleur looked as if she was torn between helping, or going after the kids, who had disappeared into the copse. Finally she reached a compromise.  
  
"I'll go get the children," she said, "see if they want to help."  
  
She set off down the hill, towards the little wood.  
  
"Andy, Mary, William!" she called, "are you there?"  
  
She could neither hear nor see them. She continued down the hill.  
  
"Rebecca?" she called, "Children, where are you?"  
  
The sound of screaming reached her ears. She recognised Andy's voice, calling her, shouting.  
  
"Mum, come quick, come and help!"  
  
Fleur broke into a run. She knew coming out here was a mistake. Something awful had happened, she could feel it in her heart.  
  
"Where are you?" she shouted, "What's happened?"  
  
A small figure emerged from the wood, toiling up the hill towards her. It was Rebecca.  
  
"Come on!" she called, waving, "We've found someone in the woods. I think he's hurt."  
  
Fleur arrived at the scene. The bare branches of the trees formed a cavern of black overhead. The ground was covered in decaying leaves, and patched with dappled sunlight. Andy, Mary and William were standing round something, something black, lying on the ground. Fleur got closer, and moved Andy out of the way.  
  
What they had found was a boy, no more than eleven, or twelve years old, wrapped in a black cloak, blood tricking down his cheek from a substantial wound to the forehead, his left arm twisted into an impossible posture, his silver blond hair dirty and matted.  
  
Fleur crouched down beside the boy. She looked at his arm. Almost certainly broken.  
  
"Have any of you got a tissue?" she asked.  
  
William delved into his jacket pocket, and produced a single white tissue. Fleur took it from him, and wiped the blood off the boy's forehead.  
  
"Is he dead?" asked Rebecca, clinging to the hem of Fleur's jacket.  
  
"I don't think so," said Fleur, "no ... he's definitely breathing."  
  
"Who is he?" asked William.  
  
"I don't know," answered Fleur, "was there anything with him, any other people? Anything at all?"  
  
"There's a wand," said Andy.  
  
"Oh dear lord," said Fleur, "he's a wizard then."  
  
"But who is he?" asked Rebecca.  
  
"I didn't think there were any other wizard families in this area," said Fleur, "I thought we were the only ones," she took the boy's wand from Andy. It was a fine wand, well polished, in excellent condition.  
  
"Ought we to call an ambulance?" asked Mary.  
  
Fleur was thinking on her feet, "No," she said, "I don't think we can get muggles involved without raising suspicion. We'll have to move him. I don't think this was an accident. Um, William, I want you to run back to your parents, and get them down here. They're on the hill, building a snowman."  
  
"Okay," breathed William. He turned, and dashed off as fast as his legs could carry him.  
  
Fleur turned back to the prone boy, "Can you hear me?"  
  
There was no answer, whoever it was was out cold.  
  
Fleur groaned, "This is abso-bloody-lutely the last thing I need," she said, "Hello! Kid, can you hear me?"  
  
Andy and Mary crouched down next to her. Rebecca was standing a few feet away, looking as white as a sheet.  
  
"Is he going to die?" she asked, in a quiet, plaintive voice.  
  
"Not on my account," said Fleur, "come on Harry, Ron, where the hell have you got to?"  
  
"Shall I see if they're coming Mum?" asked Andy, standing up. Like Rebecca, he was very pale, and obviously in considerable shock. A wisp of bright red hair stuck out from beneath his woolly hat.  
  
"They're coming," said Fleur, "I'm sure of it."  
  
They heard the sound of people in the distance, twigs cracking under running feet. Harry burst into the clearing, red in the face through exertion. He was not used to running so fast so quickly.  
  
"Fleur," he gasped, "whatever ... oh Jesus Christ," he breathed, as he caught sight of the body. He rushed over, and crouched down next to the boy.  
  
"Is he hurt?" asked Harry.  
  
"Look at his arm Dad," whispered Rebecca, tentatively taking step closer.  
  
"Almost certainly broken," said Harry, inspecting it. He rolled up the sleeve of the boy's cloak. There was considerable bruising around his elbow, and what looked like long, red marks on his arm. Rebecca backed away again.  
  
"He's a muggle, right?"  
  
Fleur shook her head, and showed Harry the wand, "Andy found this in his hand."  
  
"Oh bloody hell. Think we can move him?"  
  
"We'll have to chance it," said Fleur, "is your house closer?"  
  
"Just about," said Harry, "we'll take him there. He looks like he took a spill."  
  
"It looks like more than that," said Fleur, "you don't get in this state through tripping over a tree root, look at that bruising."  
  
"We'll get him home," said Harry, he took his wand out of his jacket pocket, waved it at the boy, "mobilicorpus."  
  
The body lifted slowly up off the ground, and with Harry keeping his wand trained on the boy, they began to walk slowly out of the copse, the way they had come.  
  
Ron and Hermione were waiting for them. Hermione gasped as she caught sight of the boy, "What happened?" she gasped, stepping forwards.  
  
"We do not know," said Fleur, shrugging her shoulders in that peculiarly Gallic fashion, "the children found him lying in the woods."  
  
"We'd better take him home," said Harry.  
  
"But he's a muggle, surely. Hadn't we better call an ambulance?" said Hermione.  
  
Harry shook his head, "He's no muggle," he said.  
  
Hermione took a step closer, "He looks ... familiar," she said. She shook her head, as if regaining her normal, businesslike personality, "We can't take him like this, supposing a muggle saw."  
  
"She's right Harry," said Ron, "put him down, I'll carry him."  
  
Harry lowered the body to the ground. Ron stooped down next to it, "I think Hermione's right. I'm sure I've seen him before," he put his left hand round the boy's shoulder to support his neck, and his right hand around his knees. Then he picked him up, "Oof," he went. The boy's head flopped backwards.  
  
"Is he that heavy?" asked Hermione, "perhaps two of us could take him, like stretcher bearers."  
  
"Bag of bones Hermi, bag of bones," said Ron, "come on sunshine, let's get you home."  
  
************  
  
With the kids running ahead to make sure the coast was clear, they managed to get the mysterious wizard boy home without attracting the attention of any passing muggles. When they arrived at Harry and Hermione's house, Rebecca and William were sent up to prepare one of the guest bedrooms, whilst Ron carried the boy into the living room, and laid him gently on the sofa beside the Christmas tree.  
  
"We'd better take a look at him," said Harry. He pulled up a pouffe, and sat down on it next to the sofa. He unfolded the boy's cloak. He was wearing a pair of jeans that were far too big for him. His right shoulder was badly dislocated, and there were more of the same angry red marks across his neck and chest ... some of these had been bleeding.  
  
"We'll need hot water," said Fleur, "I'll get Hermione to put the kettle on."  
  
"Get me plenty of cotton wool, and there are bandages somewhere in the kitchen," instructed Harry, "what I wouldn't give for a Madam Pomfrey right about now."  
  
The boy was still unconscious, but even without verbal evidence, Harry could tell he'd been through a lot.  
  
Hermione bustled into the room, bearing a red plastic bowl filled with warm water, "I figured you'd need this," she said, "and Fleur's getting some bandages, and cream and stuff."  
  
She wetted a flannel in the water, and handed it to Harry, who pressed it to the boy's bloody forehead.  
  
"He's going to have a little scar there," observed Hermione. Harry froze.  
  
"You don't suppose it was ... you know, who did this?"  
  
"Voldemort? Doubt it, we'd have heard something if he was back in the country," said Hermione, "face it Harry, you'd be the first person they'd call on."  
  
Voldemort had vanished from Britain after his last encounter with Harry, five years earlier, this time everyone had thought him broken for good, but still rumours had circulated. He had been seen all over the world. Then some wizards in Australia had been murdered, and the Dark Mark shot into the sky over Sydney, where muggles could see it. There had been an international outcry, and the entire wizarding world was on their guard. This was partly the reason Harry had been so busy at work lately. He had been called upon to follow the slightest lead that the Magical Criminal Investigation Department had come up with, and there had been lots.  
  
"I'm a prime target," said Harry, under his breath, "bloody Voldemort."  
  
"What's that?" said Ron, who had appeared in the doorway.  
  
"Nothing," said Harry, "forget it."  
  
"Oh," said Ron, "I came down to ... well, the guest bedroom is ready. Want me to carry him?"  
  
"You'd better," said Harry, "puny muscles, you see."  
  
"Come on mate," said Ron, bending to pick up the boy again. Harry took the tub of water, and Hermione followed behind, her face etched with concern. With some considerable effort on Ron's part, for the Potters' staircase was steep and narrow, they got him upstairs, and into the bedroom the children had prepared. Ron laid his immobile form down on the bed.  
  
"He'll need to get that arm seen to," said Ron, "I really think we should call an ambulance."  
  
"Do you want me to try, only, we don't have a telephone," said Hermione, "there's one in the village, I can be there and back in five minutes."  
  
"Don't bother," said Harry, "too many awkward questions. We've done too much. And believe me Hermi, you don't want to get involved with muggle police."  
  
Hermione blushed, one of her biggest secrets, that she had been hiding from Harry for nearly six years, was that she had been pulled over and breathalysed by the police for erratic driving, "We ought to do something."  
  
"If we call anywhere," said Harry, "it's St Mungo's."  
  
Ron nodded his agreement, "Unless we have somebody here who can repair broken bones."  
  
Fleur broke the silence, "Um, actually, I have medical training."  
  
Ron turned to stare at her, "You never told me."  
  
"You never asked," said Fleur, "it was only a little anyway. But I can repair bones. And we really should relocate his shoulder. Here, let me."  
  
She bent down next to the bed, and putting her hand on the boy's shoulder, pushed hard on his shoulder. She grimaced. There was a loud crack.  
  
"That's done it," she said. She stepped away. His shoulder did indeed look more normal now, "old muggle methods, sometimes you just can't beat them."  
  
Ron looked considerably impressed.  
  
Harry soaked the flannel in the tepid water, and bathed his forehead once more, whilst Hermione applied antiseptic cream to the wounds on his chest.  
  
"He does look familiar you know," said Harry, "I feel sure I've seen him before."  
  
"I know what you mean," said Hermione.  
  
Fleur gave a cry of surprise, "Harry, Hermi, look, he's coming round."  
  
She was right. The boy stirred, opened first one eye, and then the other. He looked dazed, and more than a little confused.  
  
"Where?" he asked.  
  
"You're safe. It's okay kid," said Harry, pressing the warm flannel to his forehead.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You were found, in the woods," said Hermione loudly, craning closer, "it's okay, we're here to help."  
  
"Has he gone?"  
  
"Has who gone?"  
  
"Him," the boy croaked, in a tired voice.  
  
"I don't know who you mean love," said Hermione, "can you tell us your name?"  
  
"Sorry?" the boy gasped.  
  
"Your name," said Harry, "what is it?"  
  
A/N  
  
So? Who is it? Is it too obvious? I think it is. More will be revealed, very soon. Please review, I love reviews!!!  



	7. The Boy From Nowhere

A/N  
  
Another day, another instalment. So here goes ... as I'm sure you all know, this belongs to JK, who came up with the original idea. If anyone is interested in trying to scrape together some cash and buy the rights off her, let me know. As for the story, well, I still don't know completely where this is going to end up, though I'm fairly sure it's going to get darker. I'm still taking guesses about the identity of Draco's new 'friend' and should be in a position to reveal just who he is in Chapter 8. My heartfelt gratitude goes out to my wonderful reviewers, also to Capital FM London, who keep me sane as I write.  
  
Chapter 6. In which, if you haven't worked out who he is - we learn of the mystery boy's identity, and Ron eats a slice of delicious fruit cake.  
  
They crowded around him. The boy seemed to be in the grip of some massive internal struggle. His bottom lip was quivering, and he looked as though, any minute, he might be about to burst into tears.  
  
"I ... don't know if I should say," the boy murmured.  
  
"We want to know love," said Hermione, sincerely. "Nobody's cross with you darling."  
  
The boy blushed to the roots of his hair, "Someone is," he said, his voice barely audible.  
  
"Who?" asked Hermione.  
  
The boy shook his head, "I don't know who he is," he said.  
  
"Did he do this to you?"  
  
"I don't know," the boy breathed, "I can't remember."  
  
Harry wrung the water out of the flannel, and put it back in the bowl, "You shouldn't make him talk about this now," he said to Hermione. "Do you want a drink, something to eat?"  
  
"I'd ... a glass of water ... please," he whispered.  
  
Harry turned to William, who was standing in the doorway, "Run downstairs and get some water will you?" William departed on his errand. Harry turned back to the strange boy. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked.  
  
The boy shook his head, "My arm really hurts."  
  
"I'm not surprised. You don't have to talk if you don't want to," said Harry, quite calmly. "But we do need to find out where your parents are."  
  
"They're dead," said the boy.  
  
Harry paused, and swallowed hard. This child was scaring him. First the bloody wound to the forehead, which now cleaned, revealed a thin, jagged cut. Now he had learned that the boy's parents were both dead. He felt as if he was looking into his own eyes, albeit different coloured ones.  
  
"Yours are too," the boy breathed. "I know, you see."  
  
Harry froze, "How do you know that?  
  
"I'm right, you see. You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"  
  
Harry turned to Hermione, as if seeking confirmation of his identity. Hermione nodded gravely, "Yes, you are," she whispered.  
  
Harry took a deep breath, and nodded.  
  
"You see, I know who all of you are," said the boy, his eyes brimming with tears, "you're Hermione Granger, except you're a Potter now ... I remember you very well. He's Ron Weasley, and she was Fleur Delacour."  
  
"How does he know this?" asked Fleur. Ron held tightly to her hand.  
  
Harry looked the boy in the eyes, and raised his eyebrows. "You seem to have the measure of us young man. Perhaps you'd like to tell us your name?"  
  
The boy shook his head, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."  
  
"Tell us where you live then," said Harry. "There must be somebody we can contact."  
  
"My parents ... I, used to live, near Bristol."  
  
"You don't anymore?"  
  
The boy shook his head again. "No, not for ages."  
  
"Well, where do you live?"  
  
"I guess, wherever now. In London," he said.  
  
Hermione looked even more concerned, "We need to find out who you belong to," she said.  
  
"Nobody."  
  
"That can't be right. There must be some relatives, someone must be looking after you."  
  
"I look after myself," said the boy.  
  
Fleur spoke up. "How can this be. He is just a little boy."  
  
Harry waved her into silence, "We really need to know your name. If we can help you, we will."  
  
The boy looked desperate. "You have to believe me," he began, a lone tear tricking down his cheek. "You wouldn't understand what's happened to me. Who I am, or where I came from."  
  
"Try me," said Harry. "I'm not just a pretty face."  
  
"Promise you won't laugh?"  
  
"Why would we laugh?" asked Harry, looking at him quizzically.  
  
"Because of my name. It's Draco ... Draco Malfoy."  
  
Ron snorted. Hermione stared at her feet. Even Harry tried hard not to smile.  
  
"Yes ... very funny joke," said Fleur, scowling at Draco. "He's obviously lying."  
  
"Please," gasped Draco. "I'm not lying. You have to believe me."  
  
Harry grinned. Of course he didn't believe the child for an instant. He was spinning some cock and bull story, winding them up.  
  
"Please Harry," said Draco, "you have to help me."  
  
Harry looked at the others. Ron shrugged his shoulders. Hermione still looked slightly shell shocked. The idea of a Malfoy being in her home was one she was not able to get to grips with. A melee of thoughts whirled around her mind.  
  
"Is that really your name?" asked Harry.  
  
Draco nodded in earnest.  
  
"Your father?" Harry went on. "I take it his name was Draco Malfoy as well?"  
  
Fleur shook her head in frustration, "Harry, you don't understand! I met Draco Malfoy in the Bull Hotel yesterday afternoon. This ... impostor claims his father is dead. How can it be so? He's lying."  
  
"This could be his son," said Harry. "Nobody is accusing you of lying here Fleur."  
  
Draco stared hard at Fleur. "I showed you a photo? You remember?"  
  
Harry turned to Fleur.  
  
"Well, yes, the man I met did show me a photograph. But, that ... how can you know that?"  
  
"If you accept the logical explanation," said Draco, "you'll understand that I am who I say I am."  
  
"What was the photograph of? Who was in it?" asked Fleur, her curiosity aroused.  
  
"Two children," said Draco, his eyes flitted around the room, taking in all the persons present. "A school photo ... of, of Harry's children. I don't know their names."  
  
Harry turned to Fleur once more. "Can you explain this? Is he right?"  
  
Fleur nodded, "I was shown a photo, yes, of William and Rebecca. The man asked me if I knew their mother."  
  
"That's right," breathed Draco. "That's exactly what I said."  
  
"I said yes," said Fleur. "I told him I knew where to find them. I ... I explained all this last night at dinner Hermione. I explained he was looking for you then. Why am I the one who is to blame here?"  
  
Hermione put her arm round Fleur. "Nobody is blaming you Fleur. But you must admit that both stories now look equally suspicious. If you'll excuse me, I have an idea," she slipped out of the room.  
  
"Where's she going?" asked Draco. "She needs to be here."  
  
"She'll be back," said Harry. "You need to rest."  
  
"I can tell you everything," said Draco. William slipped back into the room, holding a glass of water, which he set down on the bedside table. "Thanks Will," said Draco.  
  
Hermione came back into the room, bearing what appeared to be a large framed photo. She turned on the lights, and came closer to the bed.  
  
"Do you recognise any of these people?" she asked.  
  
"I can't see that," snorted Draco. "Hand it to me, I'll take a look."  
  
Hermione relinquished the photograph. Harry recognised it as the one that hung over his desk in the downstairs study. It was a Hogwarts school photo, taken during the summer term of his second year, about a week before he rescued Ginny Weasley from the Chamber of Secrets. The children in the photo were grinning from ear to ear. Gilderoy Lockhart appeared to be preening himself.  
  
"Can you ... identify any of these people?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Of course," said Draco, surveying the photo with interest. He had not seen it before, for his father had declined to part with the twenty galleon sale price, even though Draco had begged him repeatedly. Slowly, he reached out, and pointed to himself, sitting in the front row, between Crabbe and Goyle. "That's me, there," he said.  
  
Fleur bent closer to take a look. "Is he telling the truth?"  
  
"He just pointed to Draco Malfoy," said Harry. "It proves nothing. Who is ... that?"  
  
"Severus Snape, you wally," snorted Draco.  
  
"Where am I?" asked Harry.  
  
"Front row, four seats along from me, next to Neville Longbottom and in front of Seamus Finnegan. And that's Ron," he pointed.  
  
"Anyone could pick me out of a photo," scoffed Ron. "Like Harry said, it proves nothing."  
  
Hermione took back the photo. "We're obviously getting nowhere," she said. "Ask him something only Draco could know."  
  
"Fourth year," said Harry, thinking hard. "Who turned you into a ferret?"  
  
"Moody," answered Draco at once.  
  
"Who's your father?"  
  
"Lucius Malfoy."  
  
"What happened to Hermione's teeth?"  
  
"They grew, when a curse misfired," said Draco. "Please believe me?"  
  
"What bit you on the train, in our first year?" asked Ron.  
  
"Your rat, Scabbers," said Draco. "He turned out to be Peter Pettigrew in the end, didn't he?"  
  
"You tell us," said Ron, folding his arms.  
  
"I think he did," said Draco.  
  
"Where did we first meet each other?" asked Harry.  
  
"Madame Malkin's Robes, in Diagon Alley," said Draco. This came as news to Hermione and Ron, who looked faintly shocked.  
  
"I'm satisfied," said Harry. "It can't all be circumstantial."  
  
Draco breathed a sigh of relief. "Does that mean?" he asked.  
  
Harry nodded. "I guess so," he said. "But I still don't understand this. How did you get like this. You can't be more than twelve years old."  
  
"I'm thirty five," said Draco.  
  
Hermione was looking worried. "But, can you remember, everything ... since?"  
  
"I ... yes," said Draco. "I'm still me, I just seem to be twelve again," he took a sip of water.  
  
"I think we ... um, need to have a little conference Hermi," whispered Harry, placing his hand on his wife's shoulder. "We could have a problem here."  
  
"Harry!" hissed Hermione. "We do have a problem. We have the mother of all problems, we have the biggest problem that ever walked the earth. This is the atom bomb of problems we have got here. I need a large whisky, and then several more."  
  
"We'll talk outside," whispered Harry. "Come on Ron," he hustled the adults out of the room, leaving the children to keep Draco company. Rebecca hung back by the door, but William and Andy came closer.  
  
"So," said Draco. "You guys are in my year then?"  
  
***********  
  
They congregated downstairs in the living room, where they could be sure that no children would overhear them.  
  
"He's convinced me," said Harry. "But what do we do with him?"  
  
Hermione came back into the room, bearing a tray on which stood four mugs, a teapot and a newly baked cake. "I thought we could do with some sustenance," she said. Ron licked his lips.  
  
"So what if he is Draco?" said Ron. "I say we hand him over to St Mungo's. They can deal with him. He's obviously nuts, he probably needs to be in an asylum."  
  
"So you don't believe a word he just said?" said Harry.  
  
"Load of poppycock," said Ron. "He's some little impostor looking for a free feed. You help him out, and you'll be setting yourself up Harry."  
  
"Ron," hissed Fleur. "His arm is broken. He's no faker."  
  
"Any good con artist will take a punch or two to look more convincing," Ron maintained his aggressive stance. Hermione handed him a mug of tea.  
  
"I still think you're being too harsh on the boy Ron," said Harry. "He's just a kid."  
  
"But I don't think he is just any old kid," said Ron. "You didn't see the way he was looking at Hermione."  
  
Hermione shot Ron one of her withering glances.  
  
"What I don't understand," said Harry. "Is how a thirty five year old man changes into a twelve year old boy in the space of twenty four hours."  
  
Ron shrugged his shoulders. "Hermi, you're the curses expert."  
  
Hermione also shrugged. "Whatever has been done to him, it's new to me. I don't remember any curses, or any spells that could reverse your age."  
  
"You deny they exist?" asked Ron.  
  
Hermione shrugged again. "Frankly Ron, it's anybody's guess. I don't ever remember seeing any reference to it in any text books, and I must have read my way through most of the Hogwarts library at one time. What I do know is we're looking at serious child abuse here."  
  
"But he's not a child, technically," said Harry. "You heard what he said. I believe he is who he says he is. But I'll be buggered if I can figure out how it was done."  
  
"This is not the time to discuss whether beating an adult in a child's body constitutes child abuse Harry," said Hermione. "Though I dare say it would give the legal system headaches for weeks."  
  
"He'll have to stay here," said Harry.  
  
Ron took a bite out of his cake. "I think you're making a rod for your own back just by having him in the house Harry."  
  
"Maybe," said Harry. "But it goes against all notions of morality not to help him. I think we should start by looking for any spells that could do this to someone. Anyone think the same?"  
  
Ron shook his head, but Fleur and Hermione were both nodding.  
  
"He's a kid Harry, plain and simple, he's just some kid who took a beating from his parents, and he's spinning us a load of rubbish to try and get something out of it. All this crap about him being thirty five? Give me a break," Ron folded his arms defiantly, this was his last word on the matter.  
  
"Hermi, can you think of where to start?" asked Harry.  
  
"It wouldn't be in any books that were commonly available," said Hermione, looking thoughtful. "Or I'd have heard of it. So I dare say the best place to start would be in books of Dark Magic."  
  
"Where can we get hold of those?"  
  
"Legally, we can't," said Hermione. "But I could pull a few strings. We'd have to wait until after Christmas though."   
  
"Great," snarled Harry. "We get to have Draco Malfoy as a house guest over Christmas. What'll Sirius think?"  
  
"You're the one who wanted to keep him a minute ago," noted Hermione.  
  
"Fair point," said Ron.  
  
Harry drained his cup of tea, and stood up. "Well, I'm going upstairs to talk to him," he said. "Hermi, cut me a slice of cake to take up please?"  
  
"He's even giving him some of the delicious fruit cake now!" protested Ron, licking the crumbs off his fingers. "Don't tell me you're turning into a Slytherin in your old age Harry? Please don't."  
  
Hermione however, cut a slice of cake, put in on a plate, and handed it to Harry.  
  
"Barking," said Ron, as Harry left the room and began to climb the stairs.  
  
**********  
  
The children were all sitting on the foot of the Possibly Draco's bed, chatting excitedly to him. Harry waved them away. "Go downstairs. There's cake waiting."  
  
"I was enjoying the company," huffed Draco.  
  
Harry handed him the cake. "Thanks Harry," he said, smiling. "You're being too good to me."  
  
Harry sat down on the foot of the bed, feeling slightly strange. All his instincts told him that this could not be so. There was no way he could be sitting on a bed as a grown man, on the cusp of middle age, talking to his arch enemy, who on the face of it, had regressed to childhood.  
  
"I ought to tell you, that Ron's all for handing you over to the asylum," said Harry. "He still doesn't believe you."  
  
"I can't help that," said Draco, sniffing greatly as he took bite after bite out of the cake.  
  
"I know. I just want to know how you got like this?" Harry went on.  
  
Draco shrugged again, "I was in the car, with him, and he, did something."  
  
"And then?"  
  
Draco looked tearful. "I don't know. I was out cold. He did this I think," he waved his useless arm about, and all that," he gestured to his other scars.  
  
"It looks nasty," said Harry.  
  
Draco nodded. "Tell Hermione thanks for clearing it up."  
  
"No problem," said Harry. "Think of it as part of the service."  
  
Draco finished the cake, and the last of his water, and then he looked at Harry, and his eyes were filled with such confusion and panic that Harry was very nearly moved to tears.  
  
"I know we never saw eye to eye," said Harry.  
  
Draco snorted.  
  
"But I want to help you now," Harry went on.  
  
"Don't get sappy on me Potter," said Draco. "I'm not a kid you know."  
  
Harry coughed loudly, and then smiled at Draco.  
  
"Christ Potter. You know this really sucks?"  
  
"I can imagine," said Harry.  
  
"No you bloody well can't," said Draco. "You're not me. None of my clothes fit. I can't get a drink, I can't drive. I can't even reach my biscuit tin back home. Believe me, if I'm stuck like this, it'll suck big time."  
  
Harry nodded in sympathy.  
  
"What's worse is I'm a kid, so who in hell is going to listen to me?" said Draco. "I have no rights anymore. And I keep crying at things."  
  
"That can't be helped," said Harry.  
  
Draco glared at him. "I don't know if you noticed Harry, but Malfoys don't cry."  
  
"Stuff that," said Harry.  
  
"This really sucks," moaned Draco. "And you know what sucks most?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Any time now, I'm going to have to go through puberty again," said Draco. "It wasn't much fun last time. Promise you won't send me to Hogwarts? Bugger, I think I'm going to cry again."  
  
Harry handed him a tissue. Draco blew his nose loudly. "Thanks Potter. You're a mate really."  
  
"This is weird for me too," said Harry, picking at the little balls of fluff on his jumper. "I never really expected to see you again, much less like this."  
  
"Me neither," said Draco.  
  
"Tell me. What were you looking for Hermione for?"  
  
Draco sighed. "It's a very long story. I don't really know if I should tell."  
  
"There's an ear here if you need it," said Harry.  
  
"Don't go getting all sappy on me Potter," hissed Draco. He paused, and looked thoughtful for a minute. "You know what you could do for me. It would really help me out."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Find me some clothes that fit. At least then I won't look like some clown."  
  
A/N  
  
Well, was it really in doubt that it would be Draco? Several of you guessed in the reviews to Chapter 5, so probably not. There's more to come. If you enjoyed, why not review?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Morsmordre

A/N  
  
The deadline for the 'mysterious stranger' competition draws closer. All will be revealed in the next chapter. Meantime, read this chapter and then review it! It's self evident that all the characters, except William and Rebecca Potter, and Andy and Mary Weasley, and possibly the mysterious stranger, belong to and were created by JK. My spell check keeps trying to replace Hermione with Herman. Is anyone else having this problem? Minor innuendo in this part.  
  
Chapter 7. In which Hermione and Draco have a heart to heart. Ron maintains his frosty outlook, I see if I can slip in another very oblique reference to someone else's fanfic, and then there's the cliff hanger to end all cliff hangers.  
  
Draco was lying in bed, his arm in a makeshift sling, wearing a borrowed pair of William's pyjamas. He looked sullen and angry ... almost like the Draco she remembered from school, thought Hermione, as she brought him up a glass of milk and a round of egg sandwiches. The boy looked up at the sound of her approach.  
  
"I thought you might like some supper," said Hermione. Draco perked up at the mention of food.  
  
"Thanks," he said, forcing a wan smile. Hermione set the tray down on his lap.  
  
"You don't have to languish up here," said Hermione, drawing the curtains and switching on the light, for darkness was rapidly falling outside. "You're very welcome to come downstairs."  
  
"Ron'll probably kill me," huffed Draco. "He hates me, right?"  
  
"I won't pretend that ... he's not too fond of you," admitted Hermione.  
  
Draco snorted. "Come on Hermione. I'm not a kid, you don't have to talk down to me."  
  
Hermione blushed. "I'm sorry Draco. It's just ... very difficult."  
  
Draco nodded. "Exactly. He hates my guts."  
  
They both looked down, as if ashamed by something. Then they both spoke at once, saying. "I'd like to have a word with you."  
  
Hermione blushed again. So did Draco, he went almost as pink as Ron did when he was embarrassed. It was, despite his situation, nearly funny, thought Hermione. "You go first," said Draco.  
  
"No ... you."  
  
Draco had gone bright pink again. Then he said. "Hermione. Harry doesn't know, about us?"  
  
"If there ever was an us," said Hermione quietly, staring at the ceiling.  
  
"There was," insisted Draco. "Even after what my father said. I still, never stopped loving you."  
  
"Draco, it would never have worked," said Hermione.  
  
"This may sound stupid to you ... you're three times my age now. You don't want to hear this from someone who isn't even shaving yet ... but," Draco paused, gathering his thoughts. What he was about to say could change everything. "I ... even after that, after all we did together, I don't think I ever could have stopped loving you Hermione."  
  
"Was that ... why you were looking for me?" asked Hermione.  
  
Draco nodded. "I'm really sorry," he said. "Remember that day I came over to your house, in London?"  
  
"That has to be seven years ago," said Hermione. "I was pregnant with Rebecca."  
  
"I was ... not in my right mind that day," admitted Draco. "I was kind of distraught. I'd been away for a long time. In Romania, with my father. But I realised that wasn't where I wanted to be. I didn't like the direction my life was taking. So I ran away."  
  
"What about your Father."  
  
"That was how he died," said Draco. "He was ... Voldemort had, wanted me back. He was executed for letting me get away," he was on the verge of crying again.  
  
"You were with Voldemort?"  
  
Draco nodded. He rolled up the sleeve of his pyjamas. Someone had burned the Dark Mark into his skin. "Proof enough?" he asked.  
  
"I'm ... how could you?"  
  
"My father tended to be a very persuasive man. Even when I finally got to be taller than him. It was very hard to resist him."  
  
Hermione thought she could tell what Draco was getting at. "He beat you?"  
  
Draco flushed again. "Most days," he said. "After he forced us apart. He reined me in, he didn't want me causing him any embarrassment. What if I'd got you pregnant?"  
  
"You didn't," said Hermione. "We never..."  
  
"Don't be naive Hermione," said Draco. "You do remember that night in the Tyrol?"  
  
Hermione scowled. "Not so loud. Someone might hear you," and then. "I can't believe I'm saying this to a twelve year old boy."  
  
"I'm the same person Hermione. I may have been nineteen then, but I'm the same person. And I meant what I said earlier."  
  
Hermione looked at him harshly. "Draco, wake up and smell the coffee. It's over, it has been over for fifteen years. I'm ... I have Harry now, I have kids."  
  
"I would have liked kids," said Draco, wistfully. "Always thought I'd make a good father."  
  
"Harry doesn't ... really know," said Hermione.  
  
"Doesn't know what. That we went out together?"  
  
"Of course he knows that," said Hermione. "About, the other thing."  
  
"I see," said Draco.  
  
"I'd ... hate for him to find out. It would just possibly destroy him. He still thinks I was a ... you know, when we went to the altar."  
  
Draco nearly choked on his sandwich. "I understand. Um ... was he?"  
  
"I don't feel it's appropriate for me to discuss Harry's sex life with you Draco," said Hermione.  
  
"I don't even have a sex life anymore," said Draco.  
  
Hermione looked down at her toes. "We'll get you back to normal Draco. Is there anything I can get you?"  
  
"Don't think so," said Draco.  
  
"You should try and get some rest. Shall I put the light out?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "I'm not tired," he said. "I have a lot to think about."  
  
Hermione nodded, and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.  
  
Draco laid back, and rested his head on the pillows. He pulled the covers up around him, and despite his promise to himself, was asleep within seconds.  
  
Now he was in some sort of cell. Stone walls, by the looks of them very thick, hemmed him in on every side. The floor, which had been covered in straw, felt chilly underneath his bare feet. Water dripped from the ceiling. High up was a small, barred window, which admitted a shaft of bright sunlight. In the distance, he could hear screaming. Desperate screams, pleading for mercy. He knew exactly where he was. This was his old cell, back in Azkaban.  
  
He could hear footsteps outside, clicking on the harsh stone floor. He knew what was coming, he could sense the foreboding, the mindless horror. Keys were being jangled. Draco stared down at his feet. His toes were blue with cold. A shadow fell across him. Draco looked up.  
  
The dementor unlocked the door, and stepped silently into the cell. It was carrying a small loaf of bread on a wooden trencher, and a jug filled with water. It set them down in the corner, and then took a step closer to Draco.  
  
"What do you want?" asked Draco, quivering in the corner. "What do you want."  
  
He could hear the raspy breathing of the dementor under it's robes. Slowly, it reached up, and lowered it's hood. Draco closed his eyes tight in blind horror. He knew what this meant. He had seen the kiss performed before. He waited for the feeling of the dementor's breath on his face ... for the end.  
  
Instead, the dementor spoke.  
  
"Draco," it said. "Open your eyes boy."  
  
Draco opened one eye. What he saw was that face, that same face, deformed, distorted beyond all recognition. That same face of his dream.  
  
"Leave me alone," gasped Draco, putting his hand over his head to shield himself.  
  
"Why do you fear me Draco? I have performed half your task for you. I have delivered you to the one whom I seek."  
  
"Delivered me where?" sobbed Draco.  
  
"To the home of Harry Potter," the stranger said. "You are there now. Ron Weasley is here too. Open your eyes Draco."  
  
Draco opened his eyes again. He was back in the bedroom, his pyjamas clammy with sweat, the sheets wrapped around him in disarray. The stranger however, had not left his side. He was standing over Draco, and this time, he held a long staff.  
  
"Get up Draco," he said. "I need you to deliver Weasley into my hands. Why else do you think I would take the trouble to set this up? It had sadly become obvious to me that, as you were, you would not have helped me. I was forced to put you in a position where you could not help but obey me."  
  
"I ... don't want to obey you," said Draco.  
  
"You are merely a boy Draco. Thus you see the beauty of my plan. How could a child in such ... mortal fear for his life possibly resist me. How can one exercise such supreme power? The answer is simple ... exercise it upon a child. Why else do you think the Puerus Curse was devised? A simple method by which Dark Wizards can control their minions. You Draco, are a minion. It is a beautiful curse is it not Draco? One of Salazar Slytherin's finest."  
  
Draco had closed his eyes again, and was sitting up in bed, muttering. "I want to wake up. Let me wake up," under his breath.  
  
The stranger leant down beside him. "Draco. You are awake. You have only to look around you."  
  
Draco shook his head. "You're a dream. That's all you are. That's all you ever were."  
  
The stranger shook his head, and made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Not so Draco," he began. "You know as well as I do that I have always been by your side. In some form or another."  
  
"I don't believe you. I won't believe you."  
  
"I would hate to have to punish you again. I could do. A refined version of the Puerus Curse can be very powerful indeed. You would be a mere infant. But with your brain, trapped in the body of a new born. Imagine the horror Draco. Imagine the frustration. You would still be you, but you would have no control over yourself," the stranger's voice hissed in excitement. "But it would not be prudent of me to perform such a curse upon you. As you stand, you can carry out my wishes. As a baby, there would be slightly less chance of you being able to accomplish anything beyond vomiting and wailing."  
  
Draco was paralysed with terror. The stranger bent even closer to him, until he was whispering in Draco's ear.  
  
"Nevertheless. You must be punished," said the stranger. "Crucio."  
  
***********  
  
Ron jumped up when he heard Draco's piercing, unworldly screams. He turned to Harry, saying. "Did you hear that?"  
  
Draco was still screaming. Harry leapt to his feet. "Come on then!" he shouted.  
  
They pounded upstairs. The light in Draco's bedroom was still on, and Draco was lying on the bed, his covers thrown to the floor, drenched in sweat, sobbing miserably. His arms and legs were twitching. Harry withdrew his wand, so did Ron, and the two of them took a step forward into the room. Hermione rushed forwards to Draco's aid.  
  
"Who's there?" called Ron. The room was deserted.  
  
Hermione had thrown her arms around Draco, and was comforting him, with a warmth and tenderness that Draco could remember coming from no other person in his life. He couldn't stop the tears from pouring down his face, and his shoulders heaved as he sobbed louder.  
  
"Was there someone here?" asked Ron, of nobody in particular. Harry flung open the wardrobe, but there was nothing there, save for old clothes that nobody wore any longer.  
  
"There's no one in the room," said Harry. He checked the windows, but they were locked. "Ron, go and check the upstairs rooms. Fleur, you go downstairs and make sure the other kids are okay."  
  
Fleur and Ron nodded, and disappeared from the room, Ron throwing a look of disgust in Draco's direction as he left.  
  
"Was there someone here Draco?" asked Hermione, still holding the boy tightly.  
  
Draco nodded in earnest. "It ... it was him," he gasped.  
  
"Who?" asked Harry.  
  
"Looked like a dementor," wailed Draco.  
  
Harry looked to Hermione, they both shook their heads. "Whatever happened," said Harry. "Someone used the Cruciatus Curse in here."  
  
Draco nodded. "It still hurts," he whispered.  
  
"You're sure there was someone in here?" said Harry. Hermione gave him a 'Harry, you're being insensitive' look.  
  
Ron came back into the room. "Whole house is secure," he said. "Nobody came in, nobody left. Unless they apparated."  
  
"That's probably what happened," said Harry. "There was definitely somebody in here."  
  
"What happened anyway?" asked Ron.  
  
"Cruciatus Curse," said Hermione, stroking Draco's hair.  
  
Ron scowled at Draco. "I don't believe that for one second," he said. "He's probably just faking it."  
  
"Ron!" said Harry, disgusted at his friend's attitude. "Nobody in their right mind would ever have put the Cruciatus Curse on himself. It's like ... well, I can't describe it to you."  
  
"I know how it feels," said Ron, mysteriously. "What I'm saying is that it probably wasn't the Cruciatus Curse. Whoever this ... boy is, he's faking it, and if he really is Draco Malfoy, I wouldn't put it past him to set the Cruciatus Curse on himself."  
  
Harry shook his head. "We need to get the Magical Law Enforcement Squad down here."  
  
"You can't call them Harry," said Hermione. "Think of Draco."  
  
"I'm thinking of all our safety," said Harry, oblivious to the fact that Draco was waving his hands at Harry, shaking his head, and mouthing, 'no, don't.'  
  
"Harry, don't call them," said Hermione. "You're an auror for Christ's sake. You don't need their help."  
  
Harry gave Hermione a withering look. "Somebody broke into my house and used a Forbidden Curse on a child. If this isn't a matter for the law, I don't know what is."  
  
"Please don't tell them I'm here," said Draco.  
  
Harry looked at Draco. "We'll think of something," he said. He turned, and disappeared from the room. Ron turned and left as well. Hermione stayed with Draco, whose tears had now subsided.  
  
"You're letting yourself in for trouble here," warned Ron, as they went downstairs. Harry, however, didn't seem to be listening.  
  
"Do you think we should check the garden?" he asked. "There might be footprints, or something."  
  
Ron sighed. "Much against my better judgement," he said. "That would probably be a good idea."  
  
Fleur was sitting on the living room floor with the kids, trying to distract them with a game of Wizarding Monopoly. They looked in on her, and let her know where they were going.  
  
"Be careful," she said. "Whoever it is may still be out there."  
  
Harry unlocked the back door, and they stepped outside. There was a chill wind blowing. The garden was covered in undisturbed snow. At least, that was what it looked like.  
  
Ron had already spotted something. Leading away from the patio, down the garden, and towards the fields beyond.  
  
"Harry," he hissed, pointing with his wand. "Footprints."  
  
"Lumos," whispered Harry. He looked where Ron was pointing. Sure enough, there was a line of footprints.  
  
"I think you might have been right Harry," said Ron. "Ought we to follow them?"  
  
"We'd better," said Harry. "But be quick. It's not very warm out here."  
  
They trudged over to the footprints, the snow seeping into their trainers and collecting around the bottoms of their trouser legs. The footprints seemed to be leading towards the stile at the bottom of the garden. Beyond that were ploughed fields, stretching all the way to the small farmhouse on the opposite hill. Taking care not to disturb the footprints, for they might later provide evidence of an intruder, Harry and Ron began to follow them down the garden, tramping across the frozen lawn.  
  
"How far do you think they go?" Ron asked.  
  
Harry stopped. "Looks like all the way to the stile," he said. "Maybe beyond."  
  
"You've no idea who made them?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "How would I have? Look, they're definitely leading away from the house."  
  
"And as they don't come back in the opposite direction," Ron added. "Whoever made them was going one way."  
  
They had reached the stile. The footprints continued on the other side of it. By the spacing of them, whoever had made them had been running. Harry climbed over the stile.  
  
"You sure the farmer doesn't mind," hissed Ron, his foot on the lower step.  
  
Harry shook his head. "The farmer has gone to Benidorm for two weeks. There's nobody at home."  
  
Satisfied, Ron clambered over the stile. The farmhouse at the top of the hill indeed looked deserted. But as he stared closer, he thought he saw smoke rising from the chimney. He squinted to get a better view.  
  
"Harry?" he whispered. "Got any binoculars?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "What do you see?"  
  
"If the farmer has gone on holiday. Why is there a fire lit up there?"  
  
Harry turned to look at the distant farmhouse. Ron was right. There was definitely a thin plume of smoke rising from the chimney.  
  
"I'm sure he said he was going last Friday," said Harry. "This doesn't seem right at all."  
  
"Should we take a look?"  
  
"We'd better," Harry took a step forward.  
  
"Wands out?"  
  
Harry nodded, remembering what had happened when last he had heard those words said. Suddenly, he didn't want to know what was happening up at the farmhouse. He wanted to turn round, and get back to the house quickly.  
  
"What's up?" asked Ron, sensing his unease.  
  
"I don't know," said Harry. "I've just got a feeling ... that's all it is."  
  
"Me too," said Ron, holding his wand tightly. "You think we should turn back?"  
  
"I'm worried about the kids," said Harry.  
  
The sound of a large bang startled them. Ron whirled round to see what it was. Harry almost jumped out of his skin. He kept his wand trained on the farmhouse. But Ron was gagging in panic. Slowly, Harry turned around.  
  
"What is it?" he asked.  
  
"Harry ... look, your house."  
  
Harry stared back up the hill to his house. Floating in the sky above it, picked out against the black night like a thousand green stars, was that unmistakable sign. A grimacing skull, with a snake for a tongue. The Dark Mark.  
  
A/N  
  
The mother of all cliff hangers ... surely. Go on! This has to be worth a review. Tell me what you thought. The identity of the mystery man will be revealed in the next chapter.  



	9. The Greatest Pain Of All

A/N  
  
Bet you all hate me for that! The 'mysterious stranger' competition is now closed. Thanks to everyone who guessed. I can tell you now that at the time of writing, (Wednesday evening, October 20th) only one person had guessed correctly. He IS one of JK's characters ... the clues were there ... and he has already been mentioned by name. Read on to find out just who it is. Thanks to the lovely people who review me, especially Cassandra, Firecross et autres. Why not review this time if you didn't already? I expect I'll get flames for this part.  
  
Chapter 8. In which we finally learn the identity of the mysterious stranger, and events take a turn for the worst. Being a short and momentous chapter in this story.  
  
A few minutes earlier ....  
  
Hermione stayed by Draco's side for a moment longer until he calmed down, and his breathing returned to normal. He was shivering violently, and his arms were covered in goose pimples.  
  
"I'm going to get you more blankets," said Hermione. "You're freezing."  
  
"Thank you," coughed Draco. Hermione gathered up the covers that had been thrown to the floor, and rearranged them on the bed. Then she left the room, turning to smile at Draco as she closed the door.  
  
The stranger stepped out of the shadows where he had been standing.  
  
"Hello Draco."  
  
Draco looked up, into the hooded face. He could still see nothing there.  
  
"You're not doing very well Draco. Your wand is even now beside you. Why did you not use it when Weasley was in the room?"  
  
"I ... you ..."  
  
"Come now Draco. Even though you seem to have Hermione Potter wrapped around your little finger ... it won't work for ever. You cannot continue with this bewildered, frightened child act any longer. I won't stand for it. I want results Draco," he bent down close to Draco, till he was almost whispering in his ear. "I want results, and I know how to go about getting them."  
  
The door opened again, and Hermione stepped into the room, carrying a pile of blankets. She froze as she saw the man standing over Draco.  
  
"Who are you?" she breathed, making sure her wand was ready.  
  
The stranger looked up. He seemed to be staring straight into Hermione's eyes. His hands went to his hood, and slowly, he removed it. Draco gasped, dreading what he might see. But what he saw was not the hideous, deformed face of his dreams, but a face he knew of old. But how it had changed since he had last seen it. It looked so much older. It was gaunt and hollow. If there had ever been any life there ... it was now extinguished.  
  
"Father?" said Draco.  
  
Lucius Malfoy turned to Draco. "Draco. We ... 'meet' at last."  
  
Hermione looked horrified. "What are you doing here?" she began. "What do you want with Draco?"  
  
Lucius scowled at Hermione. "It is simple ..." he began. "I want the one who killed me ... or at least, as good as killed me ... all those years ago."  
  
"But that was Lord Voldemort," said Draco.  
  
Lucius rounded on his terrified son. "Lies," he hissed. "All lies ... nothing was true. I was not killed by Lord Voldemort, I was not even harmed by him. The Dark Lord rewards his servants, and punishes his enemies."  
  
Draco looked up again, about to speak, but Lucius silenced him. "We have spent many long years searching for you Draco," he said. "The Death Eaters, Lord Voldemort and I. We followed every rumour, every lead ... but you were well hidden weren't you?"  
  
Draco looked first to Hermione, then back to his father. "I don't know what you mean."  
  
"Draco, even the Death Eaters would not approach the dread fortress of Azkaban," Hermione gasped again at this. Lucius continued. "The Dementors had you well protected."  
  
Draco turned to Hermione, a pleading look in his eyes. "Hermi ... please?"  
  
Lucius scowled, and then struck Draco hard across the face. "Silence!" he roared. "A Malfoy does not grovel at the feet of a mudblood."  
  
He turned back to Hermione, withdrawing his wand as he did so. He pointed it at Hermione, who was rooted to the spot, like a rabbit caught in a headlight beam.  
  
"Avada Kedavra!" he screamed. Hermione screamed too ... a bolt of green light shot from the end of Malfoy's wand. She heard the rushing sound, saw the light. It struck her in the head. Her body glowed green for a brief second, and she collapsed to the floor, lifeless.  
  
"A fate which she deserved when first I discovered your ... indiscretion Draco," he said. He strode over to the door, and clicked the lock into place.  
  
Draco had hidden his face in the blankets.  
  
"Look at me!" hissed Lucius. "Why are you afraid to show your face boy?"  
  
Draco didn't answer.  
  
"Could it be you are ashamed?"  
  
There was a hammering at the door. A voice, raised. "Hello. Hello, what's going on?" it was Fleur. Lucius ignored her.  
  
"I said ... could it be you are ashamed," he grabbed a handful of Draco's hair, and pulled him upwards. Draco screamed. The hammering on the door grew louder.  
  
"I heard screams!" someone was shouting. "Hermi? Are you okay? Who else is in there?"  
  
"Are you ashamed?" yelled Malfoy, still clutching Draco by his hair. The boy's screams grew louder still.  
  
"No father," he squealed. Malfoy released his grip, and Draco fell back onto the pillows.  
  
"Hermione! Draco! Open this door!" called Fleur.  
  
"Draco ... I am disappointed in you. You are failing the test I have set you."  
  
"What test?" asked Draco.  
  
"To bring me Weasley," hissed Lucius. "That is all I want. That act alone will prove to me that you are more than worthy to be re-admitted to our ranks. Voldemort will not be angry with you. I promise you that Draco ... but only if you succeed. I want Weasley, and so far you have disappointed me."  
  
Draco knew better than to ask his father why he wanted Ron. He also knew he didn't want to pass the so called test that had been set for him.  
  
"There is still time," said Lucius. "Do not think I won't be back Draco. Do not think you have escaped me."  
  
He turned to the window, saw that it was locked, and blasted it open with his wand. So doing. He climbed onto the windowsill, agile as a cat, and then was gone.   
  
Draco heard his feet on the patio below, but he did not yet dare move. There was a loud bang from outside, and a rush of green light. Draco did not dare look. Finally, when he judged it safe, he clambered out of bed, and rushed to the window. Sure enough, the Dark Mark was floating serenely in the sky overhead, casting an eldritch glow over the garden.  
  
"Hermione!" came Fleur's voice. "Open this door!"  
  
Draco ran over to the door, and unlocked it. It burst open, nearly flattening him, as Fleur barged into the room like an enraged elephant. She stopped as she saw what had happened. Hermione's corpse was lying on the floor, her face an expression of pure horror ... her eyes wide open. Draco ... standing there, his face red, his eyes puffy and swollen.  
  
Fleur dropped to her knees beside Hermione. "How did ... how did this happen?"  
  
Draco took a step backwards. "It was Avada Kedavra," he whispered. "The killing curse."  
  
Fleur put her hand to Hermione's forehead. She was still warm ... blood trickled from a tiny cut, just below her hairline, where the curse had struck home.  
  
Draco dropped to the floor, kneeling over Hermione. He could feel the tears coming.  
  
"There is no pulse," said Fleur. "We had better not let the children see her."  
  
A lone tear ran down Draco's face. "Where are the children?" he asked.  
  
"Downstairs," said Fleur. "I told them to wait there for me ... we heard screams. Draco, who was it, who did this?"  
  
Draco sighed. "My father," he breathed.  
  
"Your father is dead ... surely."  
  
Draco shook his head. "I thought he was," he began. "Evidently no longer."  
  
Fleur felt Hermione's forehead again. "There is ... nothing we can do," she said. "She is dead."  
  
Draco heard running footsteps on the patio below. The sound of shouting ... Harry's voice.  
  
"Oh Lord," said Fleur, a tear running down her face as she looked at Hermione's limp form. "Oh Lord."  
  
Now footsteps, on the stairs, thumping on the bare boards, coming ever closer. The door to the bedroom burst open. Harry stood there, wand poised and at the ready. He observed the scene before him. Draco and Fleur crouched by Hermione's side. Hermione lying on the floor.  
  
"Is ... what happened?" gasped Harry, taking a step nearer.  
  
Fleur looked up. Harry could see from the expression on their faces what had happened.  
  
"Harry," began Fleur.  
  
"She's dead ... isn't she," said Harry, his voice hoarse.  
  
Fleur nodded. "Harry ... I'm ... so sorry."  
  
A myriad thoughts were swirling round Harry's beleaguered mind. Why Hermione? Why now? What had she done to ... what had he done to deserve this loss?  
  
"Why me?" he breathed. "Why is it always me?"  
  
He bent down next to Hermione. Fleur stood up, and took Draco by the hand. "We'll ... be downstairs Harry. I ... you should have some time alone."  
  
Harry was stroking Hermione's hair, cradling her head in his arms. Blood was still trickling down her forehead from the wound the curse had made. It stained his jumper crimson red. "Thank you," he breathed. Fleur ushered Draco out of the door, and closed it softly. A moment later he heard their footsteps on the stairs.  
  
Harry leant closer, and kissed his wife on the cheek. The body was still warm. It seemed stupid, so horribly futile, that her life could have been snatched from her. Only the night before they had been joking, happy ... their friends had been at their side. Never again would she favour him with her smile ... never again would they sit side by side in bed, a child snuggled down between them, smarting from a nightmare. Never again would she grin as she removed yet another culinary disaster from the oven. Harry had thought he had all those things. He thought he would have them until his dying day ... clearly he was to be denied.  
  
He clutched her lifeless form even more closely, and wept bitterly.  
  
************  
  
Fleur closed the living room door. Ron was sitting on the sofa, all four children held closely. He looked up expectantly as she and Draco came over, and sat down with them.  
  
"Are they okay?" asked Ron, dreading what he might hear. "Where's Hermi."  
  
Fleur looked down at the floor ... it was all she could do not to start crying in front of Harry's children. They were looking at her, their eyes wide behind their glasses. They were the very image of Harry and Hermione. Their parentage could not possibly have ever been in doubt.  
  
"Fleur," whispered Ron. "What happened. Who was it?"  
  
"It was my father," said Draco, in a small voice. "He ... came back."  
  
"Your father is dead," said Ron. "Stop talking rubbish. How's Hermi? Is Harry with her?"  
  
"Ron. Will, Rebecca," Fleur looked up again. "I ... don't know quite how to say this. Heaven knows, I prayed I never would have to."  
  
"She's dead," breathed William. "Isn't she?"  
  
Rebecca buried her face in her hands. William put his arm around her shoulder.  
  
"Isn't she?"  
  
Fleur coughed. Then she nodded. "I'm sorry," she said.  
  
Draco didn't say anything. One look at his face said it all.  
  
"What happened?" asked Ron, more firmly this time.  
  
"There's no need," said William, holding his sister close to him. "It was Avada Kedavra ... wasn't it?"  
  
Fleur nodded again.  
  
Tears were streaming down both their faces. Fleur had to look away.  
  
"She didn't suffer then," breathed Ron. "It was quick."  
  
Rebecca sobbed loudly. Fleur clutched the edge of the sofa. She wanted so badly to hug and comfort them, to tell them everything would be all right. But she couldn't bring herself to. She knew she would be lying if she tried to comfort them. Everything would not be all right. Hermione was dead, murdered in her own house by a cloaked intruder who, who appeared to have taken on the appearance of a man everybody knew to be long dead ... at least, if Draco's words were to be believed.  
  
The door opened, and Harry came in, a look of despair such as they had never seen on his face before.  
  
"There's nothing I could do," he said, bleakly. "There's nothing any of us could do."  
  
The children detached themselves from Ron, and flung themselves at their father. At that moment, the enormity of what had happened finally hit Harry ... Rebecca, sobbing uncontrollably into his jumper ... William, biting his lip in an effort not to ... Harry fainted to the floor.  
  
A/N  
  
How did Lucius Malfoy apparently escape death? And if he stayed in the room ... then who made the footprints outside? Hermione dead? How can this be? These questions, and others I haven't thought of yet, will of course be answered soon. Review ... please?? Oh yeah ... the winner, was ~a QT Chic~ (think that's how you spell it, sorry if I'm wrong) who correctly guessed Lucius Malfoy. Admire, worship and revere this person, for they are wise! It was going to be Pettigrew but I had a major rethink, deleted five chapters and did a massive rewrite so that I can have a massive denouement at the end, a la JK Rowling, and also gives me the chance for some more plot complication to confuse Pantalaimon a bit more. OK, that's enough author's note. Bye now. PS ... review ... I expect I'll get flamed, but it would be giving the plot away to try and avoid them by divulging what will happen next.  



	10. St Mungo's

A/N  
  
So ... here we are again! Prepare for a quieter chapter after all the upsets last time round. It was very hard to kill off such an essential character, and I have written and rewritten both that last chapter and this one several times, and explored loads of possibilities about how the plot could develop with or without certain characters. Hermione was the one that best suited how I want this story to pan out. If I thought it would appease any of you guys, I'd disclose the plot here and now, but I feel that would insult you all, ruin the story, and I'd be shirking my responsibilities by doing so. For now, you're just going to have to wait and see. It all belongs to JK though, so don't anyone go suing me now. Once again, thanks for all your reviews. This part is probably a bit of a tear-jerker in parts, so hang on. The theme song to this chapter is Meat Loaf's 'When Rock & Roll Dreams Come Through,' the lyrics fit perfectly after all. Sorry if you think I'm getting too sappy, more dark bits to come. I also ought to apologise for inadvertently offending one reader last time with a rather stupid comment in the author's note. I was not intending to put this reader down, though I can see how the comment could have been taken as so. I can't really afford to lose readers, so my apologies again. Enough, here's the story already!!  
  
Chapter 9. In which goodbyes are said, Draco tries to convince Ron that he is who he says he is, and events begin to become clearer to Harry.  
  
The surgeon emerged from the operating theatre, a grave look on his face. He crossed the corridor, and pushed open the door to the small room opposite. It was comfortably furnished, with several squashy chairs, a picture of flowers in a vase and a large coffee table with magazines on it. There was also a roaring fire.  
  
Harry, William and Rebecca were huddled together on one of the sofas, looking quite the worse for wear. It was getting on for midnight, and they had been waiting for nearly five hours. St Mungo's may have been the best magical medical facility in Britain, but even the wife of the boy who lived couldn't be pushed to the front of the queue.  
  
William looked up at the sound of the surgeon's footsteps. The surgeon, a noted expert in magical maladies and curses, whose name was Marmaduke Carter, coughed lightly to get Harry's attention. Harry looked up.  
  
"I'm sorry Mr Potter," Carter began. "We ... tried everything within reason, but even magic can't bring someone back from the dead."  
  
Harry nodded. "I understand," he said. "Thank you."  
  
"We're here to help," said Carter. "Is there anything we can get you?"  
  
Harry nodded again. "I ... I think the children would quite like to see her. Say goodbye, and such."  
  
"I think we can arrange that," said Carter. "If you'd like to come with me."  
  
The unhappy group followed him out of the relative's room, back across the corridor, and through the swing doors. The operating theatre was steely grey ... clinical ... depressing. In the centre of the room, surrounded by doctors, was the table, on which lay Hermione, her body now covered by a green blanket.  
  
"Could we all step outside for a moment?" asked Carter. The other doctors murmured their assent. The staff retreated beyond the doors, leaving Harry, William and Rebecca alone in the room.  
  
Harry gingerly stepped forwards ... the children still holding tightly to his hands. He released William, reached out, lifted the blanket covering his wife. She looked calm, peaceful ... as if she were merely sleeping. Someone had tactfully closed her eyelids to make it appear so.  
  
Rebecca turned away, unable to look.  
  
William peered closer. So did Harry. Somebody had cleared the blood from her forehead, and now they could see clearly the mark of the curse that had killed her. A small, lightning bolt scar. Unconsciously, both of them put their hands to their own foreheads.  
  
"Mum," breathed William.  
  
Rebecca was sobbing uncontrollably.  
  
"Do you want to kiss her goodbye?" asked Harry, taking William's hand again.  
  
"Can ... I stay with her for a minute more?" asked William. "Alone?"  
  
"Of course," said Harry. "Come on Rebecca. Let's let Will say goodbye."  
  
The two of them backed slowly out of the theatre. William stepped up to the table, and planted a kiss on Hermione's forehead. It was odd how warm she still seemed. William had always, up till now, thought of death as a cold experience. He remembered what his Father had once told him ... 'to the well organised mind ... death is but the next big adventure.' It would be nice to think Hermione was off having an adventure somewhere. He certainly hoped that was what was happening. He would hate to think of her being cold, lonely.  
  
"Remember when I was six?" he asked. "I fell off my broomstick in the back garden when Dad was teaching me how to fly?"  
  
There was no answer. He hardly expected there to be. "I broke my leg in four places ... and we had to come here?"  
  
Still silence.  
  
"You sat by my bed all night. I don't think you ever went to sleep. I ... it's just, I never thanked you for that. I don't think I ever did."  
  
He looked again upon his Mother's face. It was almost like she was smiling. Perhaps something was listening to him. Perhaps she knew.  
  
"Anyway. Thanks ... that's what I wanted to say," he said. He could have sworn the smile on her lips was getting bigger. He heard the sound of his Father's footsteps on the tiled floor behind him ... and knew his time was up.  
  
************  
  
Ron returned from the vending machine with two cups of lukewarm coffee, and hot chocolate for the children. He handed Draco his cup with an apologetic look on his face.  
  
"I didn't know which you'd prefer," he said, by way of explanation, as Draco sipped the chocolate.  
  
"It's fine," said Draco. "I prefer chocolate anyway."  
  
"I wonder how they're getting on upstairs," said Ron.  
  
Fleur turned to look at him. She had been reading a back issue of Witch Weekly.  
  
"I expect they'll let them see the body," she said.  
  
They were sitting either side of Draco's bed, in a private room just off the Children's Ward ... Fleur thinking it best not to risk commitment by disclosing Draco's real age. A platoon of doctors and nurses had just left their side, having repaired Draco's arm at long last.  
  
"She was always very good to me," said Draco.  
  
"She was good to all of us," said Ron. "I never thought it would end like this though."  
  
Fleur shook her head grimly. "Me neither," she said. "Hermi was a true friend."  
  
Ron nodded in agreement. He sipped his coffee. "You okay?" he asked Draco.  
  
Draco shook his head. "Not really," he said. "I'm lying in a bed, with my left arm in plaster ... you'll excuse me if I say this isn't how I thought I'd be spending Christmas Eve."  
  
"How would you normally have spent it?" asked Ron.  
  
"In a perfect world," said Draco. "I would spend Christmas with my nearest and dearest, opening my presents in front of a blazing fire. Unfortunately," he went on. "This is not a perfect world."  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
"Give me a break Ron. You know as well as I do I just spent six years in Azkaban. This was meant to be my first Christmas outside."  
  
"You spent time in Azkaban?"  
  
"You forget who I am," said Draco. "You must have read the papers?"  
  
"I know Draco Malfoy spent time inside for killing a muggle," said Ron. "But you're n..."  
  
"The sooner you accept who I am Ron, the sooner we can start figuring a way out of this mess," said Draco. "Why is it so hard?"  
  
Ron shook his head. "You can't be Draco Malfoy ... you just can't be."  
  
"Look at my face," said Draco. "Surely you remember. And how can I not be me?"  
  
"You have blond hair. I remember little else," said Ron. He bent closer.  
  
"I need to convince you," said Draco. "But for the life of me ... I just can't figure out a way to do it," he appeared to examine his fingers, which were poking out the end of his plaster cast.  
  
"I'm convinced you're not Draco Malfoy," said Ron. "Nobody has heard hide nor hair of you for six whole years. You do realise that's a heck of a long time?"  
  
Draco nodded. "Of course ... I was in Azkaban."  
  
"Draco Malfoy was in Azkaban," said Ron. "You, on the other hand, are a child."  
  
"I'm cursed," said Draco, insistently. "I'm thirty five. That man ... my father ... he did it."  
  
"But nobody knows of any such curse," said Ron. "Even Hermione doesn't ... didn't."  
  
"It was a curse," Draco looked as though he was struggling to remember something. "I ... the name escapes me. I think it began with a p."  
  
Fleur looked over the top of the magazine. "Puerus," she whispered. "It's the only answer."  
  
Ron stared at her. "I'm sorry ... I didn't catch that."  
  
Fleur repeated herself for their benefit. "The Puerus Curse. I'm amazed I didn't spot it before."  
  
"I've never heard of it," said Ron, folding his arms defensively. "Enlighten me."  
  
Fleur coughed slightly. "It's a very old, very powerful curse, used by Dark Wizards. It was a favourite of the Death Eaters at one time. They would turn their enemies to mere children, as a punishment. It was ... meant to be a great frustration ... the enemy would reduce themselves to a state of mental anguish, trying to convince an unsuspecting adult world that they were who they said they were. Eventually they would give up ... fade into the background. I gather some of them committed suicide."  
  
"You don't need to ask me to find out how frustrating it really is," said Draco.  
  
"There was no counter curse," said Fleur. "Nothing could block it. It was an assured way of bringing down your enemies. Very few people could take it and be strong enough to live for long."  
  
"You're telling me this was used by Death Eaters ... and it never got out?" said Ron, incredulously. "Pull the other one Fleur, it has bells on."  
  
Fleur shrugged. "You believe what you will," she said. "The Ministry hushed it up ... it was an embarrassment to have all these children running around, claiming to be something they were patently not. There was a gagging order put on the Daily Prophet. Not even Rita Skeeter could get close to the story."  
  
"And you know all this?"  
  
"From work," said Fleur. "You find these things out in my position. I'm only amazed I never thought of it before. It would be so simple. Imagine how effective it would be ... to be a twelve year old version of yourself, unable to speak, unable to testify. What would you do?"  
  
"I know what I'd do," said Draco. "I'd try and figure a way out."  
  
"Maybe you would," said Fleur. "But there were many who didn't ... many who weren't strong enough to fight."  
  
"So there was a cover up," said Ron. "Big deal."  
  
"Yes, very big deal," said Fleur. "Can you think what chaos would happen if that ever got out. I wouldn't even have told you this if it hadn't just occurred to me ... that this is what happened to Draco ... and it means a very powerful, very dark wizard is behind it."  
  
"Exactly," said Draco. "My father."  
  
"I think I know your father ... if that's who you are, is dead boy," said Ron. "He was killed in broad daylight, and there were witnesses."  
  
"How do you know that?" asked Draco. "Everyone thought Voldemort killed him. It was in the papers ... I read it in the papers myself."  
  
"Voldemort didn't kill your father," said Ron. "That was a lie, designed so that certain individuals could cover their tracks. I'll tell you who killed Lucius Malfoy. It was me."  
  
Draco stared at Ron in astonishment. "How come?" he said.  
  
"I was ... I shouldn't tell," said Ron. "It's not an episode I'm proud of. It was something I had to do though. I don't know what else I could have done in the circumstances."  
  
"You don't need to try and apologise to me," said Draco. "Believe me ... there was no love lost between us. He wanted one thing, and I wanted another. All my life there was this, tugging, fighting between us. Usually he would win ... he was a powerful man, and a bad tempered one."  
  
Ron nodded. "Powerful is probably the word," he said quietly, sipping his coffee as he did so.  
  
"I don't think you believe me ... do you?" said Draco. "Even after that?"  
  
"I'm finding it hard to believe you," said Ron. "There's no precedent for this. I've heard nothing of it before. Fleur's explanation ... yeah, for sure that was timely, but I don't see how, when I know Lucius Malfoy is dead, he can have cursed his own son to make him take on the appearance of a boy."  
  
"Accept the logical explanation Ron," said Draco. "That my father is evidently not dead..."  
  
"Nobody has survived," said Ron. "Only one person has ever survived Avada Kedavra ... and he's upstairs."  
  
************  
  
Harry emerged from the Interview Room looking considerably the worse for wear, considering the events of that night, and the insistent questioning by the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. Harry, in his capacity as Commissioner General of the entire Magical Criminal Investigation Department, had been lucky enough never to have had to be an interviewee before ... though he had personally conducted several interviews in his time, and he was somewhat shaken. Of course he knew all about police interviewing techniques, and that naturally, in a murder enquiry those closest to the deceased would need to be swiftly eliminated from the frame, but still, their insinuations that he might have killed Hermione, and conjured the Dark Mark, had made his already overheated blood boil.  
  
William and Rebecca were curled up on the squashy sofas back in the Relatives' Room, both asleep, though looking troubled. Harry sat down next to them. It had been doubly hard not to incriminate Draco in all of this. Harry had stuck to the bare bones of the story, and had said merely that the boy had identified Hermione's attacker as Lucius Malfoy. The policemen had reacted with interest to this.  
  
It was now early morning, two o'clock to be precise. Christmas Eve as well. Harry had been intending to spend his Christmas Eve wrapping gifts, and trying to distract the children from trying to peek.  
  
"I should really get some sleep," he murmured to himself. The sofas in the room were so very squashy, after all.  
  
************  
  
"Interview commences at zero two hundred hours," said Superintendent Trevelyan, laying his Quick-Quotes quill down on a fresh piece of parchment. "In attendance, one Ronald Weasley, aged thirty five, of Ivy Cottage, Green Lane, Titherne, Surrey. Mr Weasley, you do understand that anything you say in this interview may be used either in your favour or against you in a Magical Court of Law."  
  
"I do," said Ron.  
  
"Good. Thank you Mr Weasley. The purpose of this interview is to clarify some of the points that Mr Potter made in his interview earlier..."  
  
"You've spoken to Harry?"  
  
"Indeed. Now, Mr Potter has told us that you both left the house to investigate the disappearance of some ... assailant present in the house at approximately seventeen hundred hours."  
  
"Seventeen hundred whats?"  
  
"Seventeen hundred hours ... about five o'clock."  
  
"I didn't have my watch on," said Ron. "Five o'clock seems about right though."  
  
"Seems about right," said Trevelyan. The quill was still scribbling away.  
  
"Mr Potter claims you proceeded down the garden, following a trail of what were human footprints?"  
  
"That's correct."  
  
"And you climbed over the stile at the bottom of the garden, onto the adjoining property?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then what happened?"  
  
"We walked a little way across the field," said Ron, the memories as fresh in his mind as if they had only just transpired. "Towards the farmhouse at the top of the hill. I heard a bang, sort of ... a loud crack, like gunshot."  
  
"Like gunshot you say?"  
  
Ron, who unlike Harry was certainly not familiar with interview techniques, looked somewhat perplexed. "Yeah ... like gunshot. Anyway. I turned round, and saw the Dark Mark floating over the house."  
  
"Carry on Mr Weasley," Trevelyan prompted.  
  
"We ran back to the house ... fast as we could go. We got inside, and I went to check on the children, whilst Harry went upstairs to find out what had happened."  
  
"Thank you Mr Weasley. It tallies," Trevelyan turned to his colleague, Inspector Chalmers, who was turning a small phial of Veritaserum over and over in his hands.  
  
"I don't think we'll be needing that Inspector," said Trevelyan. "The stories check out."  
  
************  
  
Harry was woken up again by someone shaking him gently by the shoulder. He opened his eyes. The room was bathed in wintry sunshine, and he was lying flat out on one of the overstuffed sofas. He looked up.  
  
"Morning Harry," said Sirius.  
  
Harry reached for his glasses, which he had left lying on the coffee table. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I Apparated down here as soon as I heard the news," said Sirius. "Ron telephoned me from the hospital. Harry ... I ... don't really know what to say."  
  
"Don't worry," said Harry. "You don't have to say it."  
  
"I'm so, so sorry."  
  
"It wasn't your fault," said Harry. He looked around the room. "Where are the kids?"  
  
"With Draco."  
  
Harry sat up. "How's Draco? Is he okay?"  
  
"Draco is fine. They've mended his arm."  
  
"Good," said Harry. Sirius sat down on the sofa next to him, and put his arm around him.  
  
"It's nearly twelve midday," said Sirius. "We weren't sure whether to wake you."  
  
"It's still Christmas Eve ... right?"  
  
"I'm afraid so," said Sirius. "They've just taken Hermione away. Was that okay? You'd said your goodbyes?"  
  
"I'd done all I needed to do," said Harry. "But thanks for asking."  
  
"I've heard Draco's story," Sirius went on. "Convincing little blighter isn't he?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Do you think?"  
  
"He's telling the truth? Yes Harry, I'm sure of it. Ron doesn't seem convinced though."  
  
"Ron always was a stubborn sod," said Harry. "He'd never budge if he thought he was right ... even back at Hogwarts," they had fallen out too often because of that. He turned back to Sirius. "How's Ron now?"  
  
"Shaken," said Sirius. "He found out Draco was meant to be after him."  
  
It was Harry's turn to look shocked. "I'm sorry?"  
  
"The police came to speak to Draco this morning. He told them ... well, everything."  
  
"So what happened?" asked Harry.  
  
"It would appear Draco was approached by his father in a pub in Titherne two nights ago ... when we were all at your dinner party. His father wanted him to perform ... some kind of test," Sirius paused for breath. "He claimed, or so Draco says, that Voldemort is willing to accept Draco back, even though he ran away. To prove his loyalty, Draco was asked to perform this test. This test was to bring Ron to his father."  
  
"Why would he want Ron?" asked Harry.  
  
"That's no secret anymore," said Sirius. "Ron killed Lucius Malfoy, or at least, thought he had. Evidently, Mr Malfoy is still with us."  
  
"But I thought Voldemort..." began Harry.  
  
"So did everyone else," said Sirius. "And Ron and I faked everything to make people think so."  
  
Harry waved his hands about. "Hold it a minute," he said. "You were involved?"  
  
Sirius nodded sagely. "I was with Ron when it happened. You might say I told him to do it."  
  
"Wait, wait," said Harry. "This is getting too much. You've just implicated my best friend, and yourself, in a cold blooded murder."  
  
"Not cold blooded," said Sirius. "Duty."  
  
"You're going to need to explain some more," said Harry.  
  
"In the fullness of time, you will find out for yourself Harry," said Sirius. "I cannot, however, tell you anything else now. Now come on, we have a long drive ahead of us."  
  
"Where are we going?" asked Harry, as Sirius stood up.  
  
"We're going to my place," said Sirius. "I want you in Hogsmeade, where I can keep an eye on you. Malfoy may try something again. The cars are waiting outside. We should get going."  
  
A/N  
  
I'm still not giving anything away about Hermione, though I will say that her death is by no means as clear as I've been letting on. We're about two thirds of the way into this now, and the loose ends will shortly begin to be tied up. In the meantime, I grovel once more at your feet for having killed Hermione, and implore you to continue reviewing, notwithstanding.  



	11. Coming To Terms With It ...

A/N  
  
I can't really think of much to say in the A/N today. So here's the obligatory stuff. JK Rowling is of course God ... and came up with this whole Harry Potter thing. It is merely our humble duty here at FFN to rip off the books mercilessly, and have tremendous fun doing so. Lyrics from 'If You're Going To San Francisco' were used without permission too. I hope plenty of you are sticking with this, and I've written so many times about how I value reviews and your input, so if I've failed to move you to review before ... make this the time you write something. I look forward to reading them. As you can see, this is a bumper edition, and once again, you may need tissues for bits of this.  
  
Chapter 10.  
  
It was nearly six in the evening when the little convoy pulled into Hogsmeade. The Magical Law Enforcement Squad had cordoned off the village square to allow the Ministry cars safe passage through the barrage of reporters that had descended upon Hogsmeade. Harry turned his face away, and hid his children from view. Draco crouched down on the floor, afraid he would be seen like this.  
  
Sirius lived in a large, rambling stone house just outside the village. It occupied a commanding position by the station, and overlooking the twisting road that led up the hillside to Hogwarts, which was perched high up, overlooking the village. Harry knew Sirius' home well of old, and was always comforted to be there. The house elves had lit fires in every room, and there was a delicious smell emanating from the kitchen. Harry and the children were shown into the living room by a particularly obliging specimen, wearing a Royal Wedding souvenir tea towel.  
  
"Thank you," said Harry, hoarsely. The house elf bobbed up and down in gratitude, then scampered from the room.  
  
"We're just whipping up a little dinner," said Sirius, striding into the room. "I thought we'd ... oh."  
  
He'd noticed what William and Rebecca had noticed. There were piles of brightly wrapped presents stacked around the base of the Christmas tree. Some of them had labels on saying 'To Hermione.'  
  
"We don't have to open if you don't feel like it," said Sirius. "There's plenty of time."  
  
"I think Hermi would prefer it if we did," said Harry. "She'd never have wanted people to be miserable on her account."  
  
Sirius beamed warmly. "Whatever you say Harry. Come on kids, I'll show you your rooms."  
  
Draco stood up, uncertainly. Sirius beamed even more. "Yes, you as well. I've put you in with Will and Andy. Is that okay?"  
  
Draco nodded, somewhat sheepishly, and followed Sirius out of the room, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a pair of William's jeans that were actually too small for him.  
  
Ron and Fleur came into the room, having just been giving themselves a guided tour of Sirius' house.  
  
"Nice place he has here," said Ron, in a tone of forced jollity. Evidently the news that he was Lucius Malfoy's target had shaken him up.  
  
"It's very special," said Fleur. "Should we sit down?"  
  
Harry nodded. "If you feel like it," he said.  
  
They took seats on the sofa facing the window. The room was filled with curiosities Sirius had amassed on his travels. There was a stuffed alligator hanging from the ceiling, tribal shields on the walls and a Zulu spear standing in one corner. One entire wall was lined with bookshelves. Sirius had become a great collector of rare volumes in his old age ... there were some that even Hogwarts did not possess in it's vast library. Harry also knew that if you pulled one of the books, a section of wall would swing round, revealing an old passage, leading directly into the school. Sirius told him Professor Lupin was wont to use it whenever he needed a break from marking.  
  
"Harry," began Ron. "There's something I think I ought to tell you."  
  
Harry looked up. "If it's about Lucius Malfoy ... I already know. Sirius told me earlier."  
  
Ron looked a little put out at this. "Actually, yes, that was what I was going to say ... I assume Sirius told you he played some part in it."  
  
"I don't blame you for what happened," said Harry. "I think that's what you were getting at."  
  
"I do," murmured Ron. "I blame myself completely."  
  
"It would, be nice to know why you killed him. What you were doing?" Harry hinted, but Ron just shook his head.  
  
"You have to believe me Harry. If I could ... if I was allowed to tell you, then you'd know, you'd be the first to know."  
  
"Ron ... I know some secrets that would make your hair go white," said Harry.  
  
He didn't hear Ron's reply, but it sounded like. "So do I."  
  
"I'm not going to push the matter further," said Harry. "I'm confident you'll tell me when you're good and ready," he turned his attention back to Sirius' Christmas tree. There was a small owl hooting somewhere in the branches.  
  
Ron, however, looked distraught. He badly wanted to tell Harry what had happened. It was a long story, stretching back to the very day they left Hogwarts, when Ron had been approached at the Graduation Ball by two cloaked men, who had made him an offer he could not very well have refused. He had wanted to ... at first he hadn't thought he was up to the job they wanted him for. He had tried to steer them in Harry's direction, but he had already signed a contract to play Quidditch for the Wimbourne Wasps. Besides, as the men had said, to employ Potter would have been a liability. They couldn't afford to have famous faces aboard, and Harry would likely attract the wrong kind of attention. Ron had not questioned them further.  
  
He wasn't sure if he would ever be good and ready, though Harry's confidence in him was touching, under the circumstances.  
  
Draco, William and Andy came back into the room, Draco still slouching miserably. Andy went over to Ron, and sat down between him and Fleur. Ron ruffled his hair. William sat down on the floor at Harry's feet. Draco, who was evidently feeling very self-conscious, stayed standing.  
  
"Sirius wants to know what time you'd like to eat," said William, looking up at his father.  
  
"Anytime is fine," said Harry. "I'm not especially hungry."  
  
"You ought to eat," said Fleur. "I would waste away if I don't get some food soon."  
  
"You're in no danger of that dear," said Ron.  
  
"I'll tell him whenever then, shall I?" asked William, impatient for an answer. Harry nodded grimly, and William scrambled to his feet to go and tell Sirius.  
  
"He seems to be taking it well," said Ron.  
  
Harry shook his head. He knew his son better than that. "He's trying not to show it in front of anybody," he said.  
  
Draco was looking more melancholy than ever. He sat down in one of the armchairs, and stared at his feet.  
  
"What's eating you?" asked Harry, trying to sound friendly.  
  
Draco shrugged. Then he turned to Harry ... there seemed to be a look of desperate pleading in his eyes. He coughed, then said. "I ... it's my fault really, isn't it?"  
  
"If you want me to tell you that it is Draco, then you're going to be disappointed," said Harry.  
  
"But it is," Draco insisted. "I ... if I had stood up to my Father."  
  
"By all accounts, you did everything you could to stop him," said Harry. "Going by ... what I used to think of you, I would have expected you to give in. That you didn't ... I think that says something about you Draco."  
  
Draco cocked his head on one side. "What did you think of me?" he asked.  
  
"I always thought you were an irksome little git," said Harry. "I won't pretend I wasn't pleased when I heard they'd sent you to Azkaban."  
  
Ron didn't say anything, though the expression on his face betrayed what he was thinking.  
  
"It doesn't matter anyway," said Draco. "It's still my fault."  
  
A knocking sound, seemingly coming from inside the bookcase, made them all jump. Harry heard a voice calling. "Sirius? You there old chap?"  
  
Harry got up, and hurried over to the false section of the bookcase. He racked his brains to try and remember what book it was he needed to pull ... Sirius had told him once before. It was something like...  
  
"Hello. Is anybody home?" this, in Remus Lupin's voice.  
  
It was staring Harry in the face. 'How to Open Magical Doors' by Paul Hear. Despite himself, he smiled, and gave the book a tug. Ron stared at him in some alarm ... he had not, obviously, seen Sirius' revolving bookcase in action before.  
  
"What are you up to?" he asked.  
  
There was the sound of badly oiled machinery squeaking to life, and then a faint rumbling sound. The section of bookcase swung round. There were four people standing there; Remus Lupin, Professor McGonagall, looking much older and even more severe, Hagrid and Severus Snape, who had shaved off his goatee.  
  
"Hello Harry," said Remus, in a deadened voice. "We thought we'd come and see how you were."  
  
He shook Harry warmly by the hand. Hagrid stepped forwards ... he was holding a bunch of lilies. He enveloped Harry in a bear hug so tight it threatened to break his ribs. Despite being close to ninety years old now, and unable to get around without a stick, Hagrid still retained the strength and presence he had done when he had been a sprightly sixty eight year old.  
  
"Good to see yeh Harry," he mumbled. "I'm ... I'm so sorry."  
  
Professor McGonagall eyed them coldly. She stepped forwards as Hagrid released Harry. "I was sorry to hear of your loss Harry," she began. "Hermione was a great friend to all of us."  
  
"For my part, I'm sorry too," said Snape, shaking Harry's hand with a warmth of feeling Harry had previously thought he never had. That handshake probably meant more to him than the condolences of all the others.  
  
"Thank you sir," said Harry.  
  
"It's Severus now Harry," said Snape. "I'm not your teacher anymore," Draco, standing on the other side of the room, caught his eye. He shifted awkwardly.  
  
"Who is this ankle biter?" asked Snape. "We haven't seen him at Hogwarts now have we?"  
  
"Actually, you have," began Draco. Harry stopped him.  
  
"This is Draco Malfoy Professor," he explained. Draco scowled malevolently.  
  
"I find that very hard to believe," said Snape, removing his spectacles, the better to survey Draco. "Did the old boy have a son then? He never told any of us."  
  
"I don't think you quite understand sir," said Draco, stepping forwards, wringing his hands. "I am Draco Malfoy."  
  
Snape shook his head. "I can't quite believe that," he maintained. "Did someone use the Puerus Curse on him or something?"  
  
At this point he realised he was the only one in the room not nodding gravely.  
  
He craned closer. "Is that really you Draco?"  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"Then good to see you my boy. Many of us have dreamed of recapturing our youth. I see you have succeeded."  
  
"It wasn't actually me," said Draco, but he never got a chance to explain, for Sirius poked his head around the living room door, and announced dinner at that point. They trooped obediently into the dining room, where Sirius' house elves, Stinky and Twinky, had prepared them a substantial spread. There were even candles.  
  
"Do sit down," said Sirius. The house elves, still wearing their tea towels, were crouched on the table, ready to begin serving. Harry knew Hermione would not have approved, and he wondered if she was watching them now.  
  
"We'll forego standing on ceremony," said Professor McGonagall to the other Hogwarts staff. "I think perhaps a toast?"  
  
Stinky leapt forwards, and poured a little of the wine into each of their glasses. He paused as he passed Draco, then filled his glass anyway. McGonagall gave the elf an angry stare.  
  
"I think," she rose to her feet. "I'd like to propose a toast to Hermione ... who has been cruelly taken from us in the prime of her life," a tear trickled down her face. "At this difficult time, we honour her life, and remember her as she would have wanted to be remembered."  
  
The others, including Draco, raised their glasses, and muttered their tributes. Harry looked as bad as ever.  
  
"I don't think I can take it," he gulped. Fleur put her arm around him, and hugged him.  
  
Stinky and Twinky returned to their carving. Sirius had tracked down a very large hock of ham. There were great platters of vegetables to go with it.  
  
"Say when sir," Twinky said to Harry, loading his plate with ham.  
  
"That's plenty," said Harry.  
  
"You should eat more," said Fleur, regarding Harry's dinner with sorrow. "You'll waste away."  
  
"You'll excuse me Fleur," said Harry. "But I'm not in the mood for eating much."  
  
Fleur withdrew her arm. "Of course not. I'm sorry, I was being insensitive."  
  
Hagrid leant over, and filled Harry's wine glass up to the brim. Harry gave him a smile of thanks.  
  
"Hagrid didn't want to come," said Remus. "Did you?"  
  
"D'int think yeh'd want us here," said Hagrid. "Time fer family, 'ent it?"  
  
"You are practically family," said Harry.  
  
"Aye," murmured Hagrid. "S'what they told us yeh'd say."  
  
"Do we ... know what happened yet?" asked Snape.  
  
Harry nodded. "There was a break in," he said. "She was ... I'm sorry ... I don't want to talk about it."  
  
McGonagall and Remus shot Snape a look. "We quite understand Harry," said McGonagall, quietly.  
  
"Thank you," said Harry. He picked up his wine glass and sipped it. Fleur helped him to vegetables.  
  
The mood at table was subdued. Snape, Harry could tell, was itching to find out what had happened, and in itself, he had no objection to that. He just didn't want to talk about it yet. His loss was still weighing too heavy on his heart.  
  
"Tuck in," said Sirius. "No point in letting it go cold. Thank you Stinky. Thank you Twinky. You may retire."  
  
The house elves bowed low, leapt off the table and scampered out of the door to continue work on the dessert.  
  
"They make my life a little easier," said Sirius, pausing with a forkful of mashed potato halfway to his mouth. "With all the travelling I do, it's nice to be able to come home and know my slippers will have been warmed, and there'll be a glass of mead and a crusty sandwich waiting for me, and someone will have drawn me a bath."  
  
McGonagall nodded her agreement. "They are a mixed blessing," she said. "They're too willing to please, we've had terrible trouble with students stealing food from the kitchens," she glanced meaningfully at the children, and William, Andy and Mary, who were sitting at the opposite end of the table to her, between Sirius and Ron. They looked down at their plates.  
  
"I can see how that would be a problem," said Sirius, making an effort to smile. "Harry, you okay?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "I'm not," he said. "Excuse me, I think I need to be alone," he pushed back his chair, stood up, and left the room. They heard his footsteps on the stairs. Mary too was staring forlornly at her dinner. She had not touched a scrap.  
  
"Should I go after him?" asked Remus. McGonagall shook her head.  
  
"Best to leave him be," she said. "I think he's still in shock."  
  
"This has come as a great shock to all of us," said Sirius. "We'll just have to muddle through the best we can."  
  
Draco was itching to say something, but kept his mouth shut. He was very hungry indeed, not having really eaten properly since his lunch at the Bull, now two whole days away.  
  
"I think I'd like to remember her for her unfailing devotion to her studies," said McGonagall, staring into space. "She was the most remarkable student I ever had the pleasure to teach. Would that others were more like her."  
  
Remus snorted. "She always was feisty," he said. "She knew what she wanted, and she knew how to go about getting it. See what she made of her life?"  
  
Snape spoke up. "My abiding memory," he said. "Will be of a girl utterly devoted to her friends. She would never leave them. I could never split them up," he smiled at the memory. "Much as I tried," he added.  
  
Hagrid grinned through his extravagant beard. "She always had a good word for me," he said. "She always stuck by me, even when nobody else would."  
  
Ron was staring into his food, desperately trying to stop himself from crying in front of his children.  
  
"I'd like to say," he began. "She was without any doubt, the best. I remember we didn't get on at first. It was me and Harry, and then her. She would have nothing to do with us. Funny how I remember that now."  
  
Sirius shook his head gravely. "Friendship is a fickle bedfellow," he said, at long last, spearing a whole new potato on his fork. The others chewed slowly. It was evident that nobody felt much like talking. "We should all learn not to neglect it. You never know when it'll be gone for good."  
  
McGonagall nodded. "Perhaps we should talk about better times," she prompted. "We don't want to go to bed crying our eyes out, after all," the glare that William shot her across the table silenced her. Evidently some people did want to go to bed crying their eyes out. She blushed beetroot red, and added. "I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say."  
  
"I dare say you were overcome by the moment Minerva," said Snape, going for the dish of carrots.  
  
William, on the other hand, was quite alarmed to see Snape on such amiable terms. The last time they had met, just four days earlier, Snape had taken ten points from Gryffindor when he had turned up two minutes late. This new, tactful Snape was quite a shock to him. He turned to Andy, who was sitting next to him, looking just as astonished.  
  
"I thought Snape was horrible," he whispered. William nodded his agreement.  
  
"Be polite lads," said Ron, noticing.  
  
"Sorry Dad."  
  
"Yeah, sorry."  
  
Draco couldn't help smiling. Even though he still felt thirty five, his condition made him feel a certain affinity, even an alliance with the children, and he was definitely certain he shouldn't be being allowed any alcohol.  
  
McGonagall spoke again. "I suppose, there will be a funeral?"  
  
"You'd have to speak to Harry about that," said Sirius. "And I'm not certain now would be the time to discuss it."  
  
"She always said she wanted something quiet," said William, almost muttering the words. McGonagall turned to look in his direction. "She never said she wanted a fuss."  
  
"I'm sure she didn't," said Sirius.  
  
William continued. "I asked her once ...what she thought dying'd be like? She said she always hoped it would be quiet, and peaceful, surrounded by the people she loved. She also said she didn't want to be mourned like this."  
  
"Sometimes," said Sirius. "The wishes of the living must be more important that those of the dead. I'm sure there are plenty of people who'd like to mourn for Hermione ... who wouldn't feel it'd be right if they didn't. Do you see what I mean William?"  
  
William nodded. "She wanted it to be quiet though."  
  
"I'm sure we can arrange that."  
  
McGonagall leant over the table. "I think you're being very, very brave Will," she said ... the first time she had ever called him by his Christian name. "I wish I had your stoicism."  
  
"I know I'll see her again one day," said William, quietly. "So will Rebecca. We all will."  
  
************  
  
Harry was sitting on his bed, in one of Sirius' many guest rooms. William slipped quietly in, and closed the door behind him. It was obvious his father had been crying ... there were screwed up Kleenex tissues all over the floor, and Harry looked dejected, drained of all his previous life and humour. He was listening to a Dire Straits album on the CD player.  
  
"I used to love this song," he said. "Got me through many a summer at the Dursleys. Seems silly really ... I just spotted it in Sirius' record collection, and I thought I ought to have a listen. Seemed right, y'know?"  
  
"Dad?"  
  
William came and sat on the bed next to him. "You okay Will?" asked Harry, putting his arm around his shoulders.  
  
William shook his head. "I didn't want to stay downstairs," he said. "They were being too depressing."  
  
"Yeah, adults get like that," said Harry. "You have to forgive them. We're not nearly as balanced as you kids."  
  
William managed a wan smile.  
  
"It's okay to cry you know," said Harry. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. Look at the state of me."  
  
William shook his head. "I feel empty inside," he said.  
  
"You don't need to hide it ... understand? That's all I'm saying. We should all cheer up for Christmas. Hermione wouldn't like to think she'd ruined the holidays for us. We can still open our presents eh? Same as usual?"  
  
"It can't be the same," breathed William, hoarsely. "It can't be the same without Mum. And you can't pretend it will be," he took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.  
  
"I guess not. Huh ... you sure told me eh?" said Harry.  
  
"Why are you pretending it didn't happen?" asked William, holding his father closely.  
  
"Will, that's the last thing I'm pretending," said Harry. "I just, I just still can't quite believe it."  
  
"I know what you mean."  
  
"It feels like she's going to walk right in through that door, any minute, and it's all going to be okay ... like we'd never found Draco in the woods ... like we'd just made that snowman, and then gone home, and had a drink. And then ... everything would have been normal. But it's not, and this is reality and the thing I want to be reality isn't. I have to deal with this," he paused. "Will, I want her back ... I want her back so badly."  
  
William could see the tears once more seeping out of his eyes. He picked up the box of tissues.  
  
"Thanks. You're a good boy," sniffed Harry. He hugged William tightly. At that moment, William knew he was going to start as well. He couldn't play act anymore. He couldn't carry on like this for Rebecca's benefit. His eyes were burning, and he screwed up his face.  
  
"God I want her back Will," gasped Harry. "I want her back with us."  
  
"Me too Dad. Me too."  
  
Harry cradled the sobbing child in his arms.  
  
************  
  
Molly Weasley stirred. She was a heavy sleeper, even in her old age, and rarely woke up for anything ... so she was puzzled now as to why she had been disturbed from her slumber. She sat up in bed, and fumbled for her glasses on the bedside table. She put them on, and the bedroom swum into focus. Arthur was still sleeping soundly next to her. She picked up her wand.  
  
"Lumos," she whispered.  
  
She checked the alarm clock. It was ten past midnight. That meant it was Christmas Day already. Though it didn't retain the excitement it had done when there had been seven children in the house, she was still filled with a comfortably warm glow at the thought.  
  
She heard the noise again. A clattering outside, as if somebody was knocking over the dustbins.  
  
"Arthur," she whispered, prodding her sleeping husband in the side with her wand. "Arthur, wake up."  
  
Arthur sat up in bed, blinking heavily. "What ever is the matter Molly?" he asked. "Why are you awake?"  
  
"I heard something in the garden," said Molly. "It rattled the dustbins."  
  
"Probably just a fox. Go back to sleep."  
  
Molly wasn't so sure. She waited until she heard his snores again, and then stepped gingerly out of bed, feeling for her slippers. She walked softly over to the door, took her dressing gown off the hook where it hung, and put it on. Then she opened the bedroom door. It creaked ... the hinges needed oiling, but Arthur didn't wake up.  
  
She thought she heard movement in the kitchen. The night sky was clear, and there was moonlight shining in through the windows. She tiptoed down the stairs. There was definitely a shadow in the kitchen ... it was moving about.  
  
"Hello!" she said. "Who's there?" she wished she had one of the boys with her to help. They'd have seen the intruder off.  
  
The shadow froze. She heard what sounded like a muffled swearword. The intruder stepped out of the kitchen.  
  
It was Molly's turn to freeze. The intruder was dressed from head to toe in a black velvet cloak, the hood of which covered his face.  
  
"Who are you?" she breathed. "What do you want here?"  
  
"I'm looking for something," hissed the intruder.  
  
"You'll find no money here," protested Molly. "Why don't you just leave folk like us alone?"  
  
The intruder chuckled. "I would have no use for your pitiful wealth woman," he snarled. "How much is it. Ten, twenty galleons? Hardly worth keeping a Gringott's account open for is it? You might as well keep it under your mattress. I gather many old people do."  
  
"How dare you!" growled Mrs Weasley. She raised her wand. The intruder reached into the folds of his cloak, and withdrew his own weapon.  
  
"Who will fire first?" he asked. "Such a quandary my dear. There is no need for you to be scared of me. Just give me the information I seek, and I shall leave you be ... unharmed."  
  
"What do you want?" gasped Molly.  
  
"Information. I am seeking your son."  
  
"Which one?"  
  
"Ronald," he said. "Where is he?"  
  
"What do you want my Ron for?" asked Molly.  
  
"Let's just say ... revenge is sweet," said the intruder. "I have good reason to seek vengeance upon the one who so nearly ended my life."  
  
"Ron's just a broomstick salesman!" cried Molly. "He wouldn't hurt a fly. He wouldn't ... he's a big softie really ... he cries if he sees a spider!"  
  
"I seek not evidence of your son's cowardice, but evidence of his whereabouts," hissed the intruder.  
  
"I swear to God, Ron isn't a murderer. Leave him be..." she was cut off in mid flow.  
  
"Ron has lied to you. He has never sold a single broomstick," the intruder said. "I suggest you acquaint yourself with your son's activities, before they destroy him ... as they most assuredly will. Now where is he?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Madam, I am, of course, well versed in the use of the Imperius Curse, as well as sundry others that could be used to bend you to my will. Are we familiar with the Cruciatus Curse, or Avada Kedavra?"  
  
Molly nodded. "You wouldn't. Nobody would risk Azkaban."  
  
"If I am caught now," said the intruder. "It will make no difference ... I have used those curses on those who sought to stop me before. Now one lies dead, and the other in fear for his miserable life."  
  
"I don't know where he is."  
  
"All I have to say is Crucio," said the intruder. "I am told it is pain beyond belief, beyond your wildest nightmares. I cannot however, speak from experience. I can only speak from the perspective of a witness."  
  
Molly looked at his wand, which was pointed straight at her dressing gown. "He was going to spend Christmas ... with Sirius."  
  
"Sirius Black?"  
  
Molly nodded.  
  
"Famed betrayer of James and Lily Potter?"  
  
"He's innocent. They cleared him fifteen years ago," protested Molly.  
  
"Yet his hands are sullied with their blood even now," said the intruder. "How ironic. Sirius Black resides in Hogsmeade, does he not?"  
  
Molly nodded.  
  
"Then that is where I must go. I bid you farewell madam," he turned, and stalked out the way he had come, banging the kitchen door shut as he went. Molly heard the sound as he Disapparated outside.  
  
"Whatever happened?" a voice said. Arthur was standing at the top of the stairs, in his night-shirt, brandishing his wand.  
  
***********  
  
Draco turned over. He was lying awake, even though it was well past midnight. He could hear William's breath coming in short gasps, and Andy's gentle snoring. William had cried himself to sleep that night. He had pretended to be asleep, to block out the pitiful sobs, that in his heart he still believed were the markings of a coward. But now he was starting to see William with a new respect. He looked upon the boy's sleeping form.  
  
Footsteps went past on the landing outside. Somewhere in the house, a toilet flushed. The adults were evidently coming to bed. They had offered to let him stay up, but he had pleaded tiredness, as was the truth, and gone to bed along with the rest of them.  
  
He heard voices, and sat up in bed to listen.  
  
"Harry," someone hissed. It sounded like Fleur. Though she had lived in England for thirteen years now, her accent was recognisably French.  
  
"Yes?" he heard Harry's voice.  
  
"Are you okay now?"  
  
Draco assumed Harry had either nodded or shaken his head, the latter, more likely, for he didn't hear his reply.  
  
"I think you should get some rest. Things will seem better in the morning."  
  
"You're probably right. Well ... goodnight Fleur."  
  
"Goodnight. Sleep well."  
  
A door shut softly, and all was silence, save for the hissing of the cistern. Draco stared up at the ceiling. This was obviously Will's room whenever the Potter's stayed over with Sirius. There was a light in the shape of a space rocket dangling from the ceiling, and the wallpaper had the Guildford Griffins coat of arms all over it. Someone had put a lot of effort into this room.  
  
Somewhere down in Hogsmeade, an owl hooted. Draco fell asleep at long last.  
  
***********  
  
And awoke again. Bright light was streaming through the windows. Despite himself, a surge of excitement swept through his body. It was Christmas morning! He checked at the bottom of his bed for presents, not really expecting to find any. To his surprise, he found a small package wrapped in gold paper. He picked it up gleefully. He had expected less than this! Someone had written 'Happy Xmas Draco' on it in black marker pen. He felt like a little kid again. Then he remembered ... he still was.  
  
William was still asleep. At some point in the night he had thrown his duvet onto the floor, and the sheets were a tangled mess around him. Draco was not altogether surprised to see a bulging pillowcase of gifts at the foot of the other boy's bed. Andy had the same. Well, thought Draco to himself, as he shook his present to see if it rattled or not. He couldn't really expect the same.  
  
Andy stirred. A shock of bright red hair emerged from underneath his covers. He was blinking rapidly.  
  
"'Lo," he said to Draco. Draco smiled at him.  
  
"Happy Christmas," he whispered. Andy smiled. "I'd have got you something ... but I think you have plenty."  
  
There was the sound of running water in the bathroom next door, and a voice, evidently confident that it couldn't be heard, singing.  
  
"If you're going, to San Franciscooooo!"  
  
Draco smirked at Andy. "Who do you think it is?"  
  
"Be sure to wear ... some flowers in your hair!"  
  
"Probably Dad," said Andy.  
  
"Da da de dum, de dum de dum de da!"  
  
William had been woken up by Ron's less than tuneful singing.  
  
"Happy Christmas," said Draco, turning to face him. There were nominally two beds in the room, so Draco had been accommodated on a fold away camp bed between the two ... it was comfortable, after a fashion, although a spring had been poking him in the small of the back all night.  
  
William made a valiant effort to smile.  
  
"Presents?" asked Andy.  
  
William nodded. He carefully rearranged his duvet, reached forwards, and grabbed the pillowcase.  
  
"I only ever got a stocking," said Draco, pretending to look grumpy.  
  
Andy giggled, then stopped himself, but William didn't seem to have minded. "Did you get anything Draco?" he asked, brushing his untidy hair out of his eyes.  
  
Draco nodded, and held up the package.  
  
"Bet it's socks," said William. "Dad has a thing about socks. Open it!"  
  
"Yeah, go on," prompted Andy.  
  
Draco grinned, then set to work on his present. It wasn't squashy enough to be socks, he thought, as he opened it. It was a small, round tin of little chocolates, with a picture of a grinning wizard on the lid. It wasn't much ... but Draco was, all the same, touched that they had remembered him.  
  
"Is that it?" asked Andy, looking disappointed on Draco's behalf.  
  
"Doesn't matter," said Draco. "I was kind of an unexpected guest, you might say," he didn't dare admit that it was more than he could have hoped for if events had transpired differently, and he had been stuck at home, in his poky London flat, with nothing but his wand, a pot-noodle, and a lousy rented television, that no matter how hard he thumped it, only picked up Channel 5.  
  
"I'd be disappointed if I only got some chocolate," said Andy. William hushed him.  
  
"Open yours then," said Draco, excitedly. As he spoke, he could somehow feel himself becoming more and more detached from the adult Draco, which seemed to be standing in a corner of his mind, tapping it's foot and making angry noises.  
  
William pulled out a brightly wrapped parcel from his pillowcase. It was very bulky, and soft too.  
  
"I think I know what this is," he said, tearing off the paper. It was a very woolly jumper ... bright red, with a little yellow lion on the front.  
  
"Has Gran sent you one too?" asked Andy, holding up his brand new Weasley jumper, which as always, was maroon.  
  
There was a knock on the bedroom door. It opened a crack, to reveal Harry, who was wearing what looked like a brand new jumper. Draco couldn't help but giggle.  
  
"Come on boys. We're all up. Breakfast in ten minutes, then you can open the rest of your presents downstairs," he closed the door again.  
  
"I'm going to wear my jumper," squeaked Andy, diving back under the covers.  
  
"You okay Will?" asked Draco. William was holding up his jumper, and looking at it very sadly indeed.  
  
"Not really," he said. "But I'm not going to get upset."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with that," said Draco, feeling a wrench inside as he did so.  
  
"No, I guess not," said William, pulling off his pyjama top and rummaging around in his rucksack for a T-shirt. "I'll be okay. It'll keep Dad happy."  
  
Draco was about to say something else, but decided against it. "I'm going to go use the bathroom," he said to nobody in particular. He threw off his covers, and grabbed an armful of borrowed clothes.  
  
***********  
  
"What are we having then?" asked Ron, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Sirius was toasting something on the old cast iron stove.  
  
"A little something I picked up on my travels. A Sirius ... 'cordon bleu' Black special, you might say."  
  
"It's bagels again isn't it?" said Harry.  
  
"With salmon!" protested Sirius.  
  
Ron turned to Harry. "How are you this morning?" he asked.  
  
"Not too bad," said Harry. "I'm going to try not to get upset today ... if only for the children. Incidentally Ron ... the acoustics in that shower cubicle suit you very well."  
  
Ron blushed. "Ah," he said. "You heard?"  
  
"Your complete repertoire," said Harry. "Very enlightening as to your musical tastes Ron."  
  
Fleur came into the kitchen, a towel still wrapped around her hair. "Is it nearly breakfast?" she asked. "I'm hungry."  
  
"Very nearly," said Sirius. "How does smoked salmon on cream cheese sound?"  
  
"Like you just offered me heaven itself," said Fleur. "Somebody put the kettle on ... I need coffee."  
  
The next person to join them was Draco, attired for the day in a pair of Will's jeans and a very baggy T-shirt Sirius had lent him. He was clutching his hand to his face, and looked in pain.  
  
"You okay Draco?" asked Harry, looking at him in some concern.  
  
Draco shook his head. "Not really," he said. "I kind of forgot I don't need to shave anymore."  
  
"What say I treat you to a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice young man?" said Sirius.  
  
"Coffee, black, no sugar," said Draco.  
  
"Yes, of course, quite forgot," said Sirius.  
  
"The boys coming are they?" asked Harry.  
  
"I think they're still getting dressed," said Draco.  
  
***********  
  
Lucius Malfoy could see the other children drifting in for breakfast now. There were the Potters, horrible little replicas of their parents, and the Weasley twins. Distilled muggle lover, he thought, and in muggle clothes too. Vile. He was glad he had never instilled such values in Draco. He couldn't quite see Draco though. He thought he heard his voice ... but there was no sign of him. Still he seemed unwilling to perform his bidding though. I will have to do something about that, he thought to himself.  
  
Lucius crouched down lower as Sirius came over to the sink by the window, and began taking coffee mugs off the draining board. He appeared to be looking at the sky, and hadn't noticed the dark shape lurking in his shrubbery, which was highly visible, despite what Lucius thought.  
  
He craned his neck, the better to see into the kitchen. He could see Draco, his blond hair washed and immaculate, sitting next to the Potter children ... his heart sank ... breaking bread with them. The boy had still not learnt his lesson, and Lucius was beginning to have serious thoughts that Voldemort's displeasure would be incurred should the test fail. He needed Weasley first ... for revenge, but yet at the same time ... bait in the trap.  
  
So great was his anger, he knew he would have to act soon. But what to do?   
  
A/N  
  
That's it for now. I have terrible writers block at the moment. Help!!!   



	12. Christmas Morning

A/N  
  
The writer's block monster is defeated after I conceded a 3% pay increase and 2 weeks paid leave per annum! Hurrah! Here, somewhat later than anticipated is Chapter 11. Will I be heartless enough to let Lucius Malfoy ruin their Christmas? Read on to find out.  
  
Chapter 11.  
  
William's biggest present had a large tag attached, which read; 'With all our love, Mum & Dad.' It had been written in thick gold lettering ... Hermione's handwriting. He nearly choked when he read it. He looked slowly up to where Harry was sitting on one of Sirius' voluptuous sofas with a glass of beer. Harry smiled and nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as he did so.  
  
William tore off the wrapping paper. It was just what he had asked for ... the very latest model, and despite his sadness, his heart leapt.  
  
"Is it really for me?" he asked, running his hands along the immaculate polished handle.  
  
Harry nodded. "I ... we thought, that is, if you're going to make the team next year, you'd need to get some practice in."  
  
"It's perfect," breathed William. Emblazoned in white lettering across the saddle was the legend 'Firebolt MkXVI.'  
  
Draco leant over, greatly impressed by what he saw. "That's a beauty," he said. "Latest?"  
  
William nodded. "Balanced trim, adjustable length twigs ... gel saddle, handlebars and fore fins for extra stability at speed."  
  
"They don't call it broom of the year for nothing," said Harry, smiling for what must have been the first time that day. "Not like in my day. Flying was an art back then ... you had to use your head, instead of all these gimmicks."  
  
William wasn't paying attention, he had leapt across the room, and buried himself in Harry's arms. "Thank you so, so much," he said, his voice somewhat muffled by Harry's new jumper.  
  
Draco picked up the broom, and surveyed it with great interest. He had never seen a broom quite like it. He would have killed for a fly.  
  
William scrambled off Harry. Draco handed him the broom.  
  
"Can I give it a test flight Dad?" he asked. "Just round the garden?"  
  
Harry looked slightly doubtful. "I don't know Will. We left your helmet and stuff at home."  
  
"You always said that stuff was for pansies," protested William. "You said you never wore any pads."  
  
"Brooms weren't nearly as fast back then," said Harry. "But, as long as you don't go too fast, and stay in the garden, I don't see what harm it could do."  
  
"Thanks Dad!" breathed William, picking up his new broom excitedly. "You coming Draco? Andy?"  
  
Draco shrugged his shoulders. "Don't see why not," he said, with a quick glance at Harry, who was, for once, beaming from ear to ear. The two boys scrambled to their feet, and followed William out of the room.  
  
"I rather think you might just have made his Christmas," said Sirius, who was filling every bowl he could lay his hands on with peanuts, crisps and twiglets.  
  
"It should take his mind off things," said Harry.  
  
"I think you're managing very well," said Fleur, quietly.  
  
Sirius handed round the food. Rebecca and Mary, who were playing with Andy's new chess set, seized great handfuls of nuts, much to Ron's dismay.  
  
"We shouldn't let it spoil our Christmas," said Ron. "Like we said ... it isn't what Hermione would have wanted."  
  
"I feel," began Harry, after a short pause. "That she's with us right now. If you know what I mean."  
  
Ron nodded. "I know the feeling," he said.  
  
************  
  
Draco and Andy watched as Will flew round the garden and back again, his jumper billowing in the wind, his hair swept back, an expression of utter delight on his face. Draco remembered fondly his own childhood, that Christmas long ago when he had tested his first broom, flying it all around the family's vast estate.  
  
Will disappeared behind the trees at the bottom of the garden, then re-emerged seconds later, streaking towards them. He slowed the broom down, and dismounted.  
  
"Want a go?" he asked, offering it to Andy. Andy shook his head.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Draco grinned. "I wouldn't mind," he said. "In fact, you might just have tempted me."  
  
He took the broom, and straddled it. Brooms had certainly come a long way since the last time he had flown. The saddle was a godsend, and the handlebars meant he didn't have to adopt the awkward positions that flying had entailed when he had been young. He smiled again, and kicked off, soaring up into the air. It was the first time he had ridden a broom for nearly seven years ... yet it was already all flooding back to him. He leant over to his left, causing the Firebolt to bank, just skimming his feet along the garden fence as he did so. Then he leant forwards to reduce wind resistance, and felt himself gathering speed as he cut through the air. This was brilliant! The broom handled like a dream, banking sharply at his slightest command, with hardly any vibration, hardly any noise.  
  
He straightened up slightly to slow himself down before taking the corner at the bottom of the garden, round behind the trees, going so low that his toes grazed the soft, snow covered ground. Then he was off again, back up the garden, towards the other boys, who were standing on the patio, feeling the wind rushing through his hair. He was chilled to the bone, yet he barely noticed it as he took the corner once more, and then was off again. The garden wasn't very large, at least by Draco's exacting standards, and there wasn't much in the way of stunt flying that it was possible to get away with without causing injury, yet it was still the ride of his life. He reached the bottom of the garden again, rounded the trees, and with a loud crash, flew straight into something that had just stepped out into his path. Draco fell off, feeling a sharp stab of pain in his newly mended arm as he hit the ground. The broom spiralled away and landed in the compost heap.  
  
"Bloody hell," went Draco, as he sat up and brushed snow off his jeans. He looked up.  
  
"I didn't use the Puerus Curse on you so that you could act like a child," a grim voice hissed.  
  
Lucius Malfoy knelt down next to Draco. "Indeed ... had I intended for you to treat your test as some sort of juvenile lark, I would not have bothered coming for you."  
  
"What did you expect?" asked Draco, shivering slightly, he was still sitting in the snow, and his trousers were getting wet.  
  
Lucius Malfoy pretended not to have heard the question. "Do you want to return to your calling Draco?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "No, not really," he said.  
  
"Lord Voldemort will be most pleased to see you. He has awaited your return for some years now."  
  
"And I'm just dying to clap eyes on him," said Draco sarcastically.  
  
"Dying will probably be the word," chuckled Lucius. "If you do not hurry up and do as I command."  
  
Draco looked at him, with a mixed expression of shock and horror on his face.  
  
"Voldemort cannot be kept waiting much longer," said Lucius. "It was hard enough to make him agree to my little plan. But then ... I always was the master tactician."  
  
"You're mad!" growled Draco.  
  
"A little eccentric maybe," said Lucius. "But mad ... no Draco, not I. Listen carefully to me. Voldemort grows impatient. If we should fail, neither of us can expect any mercy..."  
  
"Father," Draco interrupted. "Why do you think I ran away from you?"  
  
"Simple Draco ... you were delusional."  
  
Draco shook his head. "No Father. It was because I didn't like what you were doing. Getting one up on a bunch of lousy Gryffindors is one thing, but killing people ... no way, that's not my style."  
  
"What kind of life did you expect away from your calling?"  
  
"A better one," said Draco.  
  
"You, boy, were a master criminal ... a Death Eater no less, the lowest of the low. You would have been shunned by an unforgiving society. Jailed even. You could not have ever hoped for anything more than a life in the service of the Dark Lord. Not after you were branded."  
  
Draco felt a sharp pain in his arm. The Dark Mark was burning. "I don't need your help to make something of my life."  
  
"You most certainly do," said Lucius. "You left Hogwarts with grades barely sufficient for me to ... arrange a job for you at the Ministry ... and when you are cut out of your inheritance, as you most assuredly will be if this attitude continues, you will not have a sickle to your name."  
  
"I wouldn't want your money," said Draco. "It's dirty money ... I don't want to touch it."  
  
Lucius grabbed Draco's arm. "Then you shall not get any. It will be amusing to see how you survive."  
  
"I have friends you know," said Draco.  
  
"And a pitiful bunch they are. Crabbe is a shop boy at Dervish & Banges, and Goyle, I believe he washes dishes for a living. He wears his name on a little badge, and he is nearly forty years old. Pathetic."  
  
"I didn't meant them," said Draco. "I'm talking about people who were good enough to take me in when I most needed help ... who aren't blaming me for a murder that was patently my fault."  
  
"If you seek absolution from the death of Hermione," hissed Lucius. "Then you're pleading with the wrong Death Eater. You will go to Azkaban for her death Draco, as assuredly as if you had killed her yourself. I will see to that. Of course, if you help me ... I will not seek your downfall, and some day soon, the world will tremble at your name."  
  
"But I don't want it to," said Draco pitifully. "I just wanted an easy life."  
  
"That, Draco, is a near impossibility," Lucius straightened up, as if he had heard something. "People approach," he said.  
  
In the distance, Draco could hear voices ... Will and Andy, calling him.  
  
"Draco ... what's happened? Are you okay?"  
  
Draco opened his mouth, but Lucius slapped his hand across it. With his free hand, he waved his wand, whispering. "Vox Draconii," as he did so.  
  
"I'm over here!" he called, his voice a perfect impression of Draco's. "I timed the corner wrong. I'm okay ... I think."  
  
"How's the broom?" shouted Will.  
  
"She's fine!" called back Lucius. "Come round here."  
  
He waved his wand again. "Finite Incantatem."  
  
Draco was emitting muffled squeaks as he heard the boys' footsteps getting closer. They rounded the trees. Will stopped dead in his tracks as he saw them.  
  
"Greetings," hissed Lucius. "You join us, just in time for the party."  
  
Will took a step backwards, but Lucius was too quick for him. He grabbed the wand, aimed it at Will, and shouted. "Impedimenta!"  
  
There was a thud as Will and Andy fell to the ground, stunned. Lucius, still maintaining a tight grip on the scruff of Draco's neck, moved closer to them. Will's wand was sticking out of the pocket of his jeans. Lucius removed it, and placed it in Draco's hand.  
  
"This couldn't have worked out better," he said. "In fact, I couldn't imagine a better execution of my plans. You will kill them Draco. Both of them."  
  
Draco was shaking. He pointed the wand at the boys.  
  
"Go on Draco. What better way to prove your loyalty to Voldemort, by bringing him the sons of those who sought to destroy him."  
  
Draco closed his eyes. Then, at the last minute, he raised his wand and yelled. "Avada Kedavra!"  
  
The bolt of green light whistled harmlessly into the sky.  
  
"Do you still defy me Draco? Do you really want me to use the Cruciatus Curse again? I want them dead."  
  
Draco stared first at the prone bodies of his new friends, and then back to his Father, who was towering over him in a manner that reminded Draco of his childhood. He would have to think fast, he would have to do whatever he could to stall for time. Then he hit on the solution.  
  
"Wouldn't it be best Father?" he stammered. "If we took them as hostages? You, I could use them as bait."  
  
Lucius smiled. "An excellent idea Draco," he said. "Maybe you are not as stupid as I first thought. Come, drag them over here."  
  
Powerless to do anything but what his Father commanded, Draco seized the limp bodies, and dragged them over to where Lucius was standing.  
  
"Now what?"  
  
Lucius kicked away a mound of grass. There was a deflated soccer ball lying there.  
  
"Do you know what this is Draco?" asked Lucius.  
  
"Looks like a portkey," said Draco.  
  
Lucius nodded. "I had it placed here, should I need to escape ... should I succeed in attaining my goal. It will make your task easier."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It is simple Draco. I now want you to deliver these children to Lord Voldemort ... as penance for your sins. I have no doubt he will spare you and kill them."  
  
"What about?"  
  
"Weasley?" asked Lucius. "I can deal with him on my own. Now take the portkey."  
  
With his Father's wand still pointed at him, leaving Draco in no doubt as to what he would do if he decided to back out, he grasped onto Will and Andy, and with his free hand, reached out to touch the portkey. He felt the familiar jerk as it took effect, and then felt nothing more.  
  
***********  
  
"Where the hell have they got to?" asked Harry, checking his watch. "It isn't like them to stay out for so long."  
  
"They're testing the broomstick Harry," said Ron. "They're probably having the time of their lives."  
  
Sirius handed round further bowls of snacks. Fleur eyed them greedily. The floor was littered with the detritus of Christmas morning ... colourful bits of wrapping paper ... discarded cardboard boxes.  
  
"You shouldn't get too worried," said Sirius. "I'm sure they're fine."  
  
Harry shook his head. "You don't think they'll have actually left the garden do you?"  
  
"Your Will's a sensible lad," said Ron. "I'm sure he'll keep them in check."  
  
"You're probably right," conceded Harry. "All the same, I'd like to make sure."  
  
He got to his feet. So did Ron. "I'll come with you," he said. "We don't want you getting into trouble."  
  
"It isn't me I'm concerned about," said Harry. "But thanks."  
  
They walked out through the house, and into the back garden. There was no sign of the boys anywhere ... no movement, nothing.  
  
"Oh hell," Ron said. "I don't see them."  
  
"They can't have left the garden," breathed Harry. "They know the risks."  
  
Ron took out his wand. They stepped off the patio and into the snow. Two sets of footprints were headed in the direction of the trees screening the bottom of the garden.  
  
"They must have gone down there," said Ron, pointing with his wand. Harry nodded his agreement.  
  
"Come on," he whispered.  
  
They had gone a few steps further when, to their surprise, they saw a figure lurch into view from behind the trees. He was attired from head to toe in a black cloak.  
  
Ron and Harry froze.  
  
"You don't think?"  
  
"Oh fu..." began Harry.  
  
"We'd better check it out."  
  
The figure had spotted them. His wand was out.  
  
"What do we do?" hissed Harry.  
  
"Get behind me," said Ron.  
  
"Are you mad?"  
  
"It's me he wants," said Ron. "This is my shot. Okay?"  
  
"Ron, you, you're a broomstick salesman."  
  
"Want to see what the broomstick salesman can do?" asked Ron.  
  
The figure walked towards the pair of them. As he did so, he lowered the hood of his cloak. Ron gasped ... for there, before him, just as the boy had said back in the hospital, was the man he thought he had killed. No, the man he had killed. But yet, he was complete in every detail, down to the silver blond hair, the gaunt, pinched face ... the sunken eyes and the flared nostrils. If is was a hoax, and Ron doubted very much it was, it had been executed with unusual skill and verisimilitude.  
  
"Malfoy," he breathed.  
  
"There's a warrant out for his arrest," said Harry.  
  
"As far as I'm concerned, there's a warrant out for his death," replied Ron. Malfoy stopped, a few feet away.  
  
"Weasley," he said. "After all these years. I trust you and Mr Thomas are well?"  
  
"Dean Thomas is dead," said Ron. "You know that as well as I do."  
  
"Perhaps I do," growled Malfoy. "I have waited many long years for this. Many long years."  
  
"You can't be alive," said Ron.  
  
"You're right. Officially, I am dead. However, I got off on a technicality. I was still breathing," said Malfoy. "Damn nuisance I know, but there you have it."  
  
"You killed my friends," breathed Ron.  
  
"In the course of duty," said Malfoy. "Such means were necessary. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Say not?"  
  
"You're a cold blooded killer," said Ron. "You deserve nothing better than death."  
  
"Ron, let me deal with this."  
  
"Shut your trap Harry ... I know what I'm doing," both men were now standing a few feet apart, their wands aimed at each other.  
  
Malfoy's gaze turned to Harry. "And if it isn't Mr Potter," he said. "You have a lot to answer for ... hopefully your son shall acquit you well."  
  
"What have you done with Will?"  
  
"Even now, he awaits the judgement of the Dark Lord," said Malfoy. "Carrying the surname Potter ... is, how shall we put this? Not one of his favourite things."  
  
"Tell me what is?" said Harry.  
  
"Oh, whiskers on roses, blue satin kittens, you know the drill," said Malfoy.  
  
"If you've harmed a hair of my boy's head," growled Harry.  
  
"I haven't harmed him myself," said Malfoy.  
  
"Enough arseing about," said Ron. "Let's finish this now, Malfoy."  
  
"Whatever you say. Do you seek to challenge me?"  
  
Ron nodded.  
  
"Be warned that I have unlimited powers at my disposal. I have only to call, and they shall be summoned," said Malfoy.  
  
"And I have a licence to use the Forbidden Curses."  
  
"I don't need a licence for such fripperies," Malfoy seemed to be taunting Ron.  
  
Ron snarled, then pointed his wand straight at Malfoy's chest, and screamed, "Avada Ked..."  
  
"Expelliarmus!" yelled Harry. Ron's wand flew from his grasp, and he stopped in mid curse.  
  
"Are you mad?" shouted Ron. Harry merely stood there, a slight smile on his face.  
  
"And so Potter, you have played directly into my hands," hissed Malfoy, raising his wand.  
  
Harry turned on his heels, and before Malfoy could react, had shouted. "Impedimenta!"  
  
Malfoy's wand fell from his hand, and he dropped to the ground, his face landing in the snow.  
  
"What were you trying to do? You bastard!" went Ron. "You utter bastard! I had him!"  
  
"I'm not going to see my best friend sent to Azkaban," said Harry.  
  
"I wouldn't have got sent to Azkaba..."  
  
"Shut up Ron."  
  
Ron growled, then launched himself at Harry. But Harry was too quick for him. He side-stepped, and Ron went flying head first into a snow bank.  
  
"You don't seem to understand Ron. We can't kill him," Harry said, as Ron picked himself up, spitting out snow. "We just can't kill him."  
  
"Want to see me try?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "If we get rid of him, he doesn't have the opportunity to tell us what's been happening Ron. This man killed my wife! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"  
  
Ron looked up. "Harry ... I ... I wasn't thinking."  
  
"You'd have killed him before he had the chance to explain. Come on, we've got to get him back inside."  
  
************  
  
Will opened his eyes. He was lying on a cold stone floor, his hands restrained in what felt like manacles. He looked around him, but it was very dark, and he could see little. Somewhere, water was dripping, and chains were being rattled. He heard movement beside him, and as his eyes got used to the darkness, he made out Draco, also lying spread-eagled on the floor, also, apparently, chained in place. Of Andy, there was no sign.  
  
"I'm sorry," he heard Draco say in a hoarse whisper.  
  
"Where are we?" asked Will. "I can't see anything yet."  
  
"You don't want to," said Draco. "They've only just put us in here."  
  
"Where are we?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "Some dungeon," he said. "But I'm rather afraid we've had it."  
  
A scream echoed round the small cell. It sounded like Andy. Will felt sick.  
  
"Was that?"  
  
Draco nodded. "They took him away. It'll be you next."  
  
"What's happening to us?" asked Will.  
  
"My fault," said Draco. "My Father ... portkey. Must be somewhere near Voldemort."  
  
Will heard no more. Draco appeared to have fainted. Now all around was silence. Will lay, chained in position, waiting.  
  
He didn't have to wait long. He heard the rattle of keys in the distance, and then the sound of the door to the cell being unlocked. It swung slowly open, and a cowled figure stepped into the cell. Will gasped in horror as the seemingly faceless man knelt down beside him, and unlocked his chains.  
  
"You will come with me," the man hissed.  
  
Will got to his feet, too terrified to argue. Someone had taken away his shoes, and the stones were freezing underneath his feet. The man led him out of the room, and into what appeared to be an arched corridor. Flaming torches hung from brackets in the walls. It felt like being back in Snape's Potions dungeon, only a million times worse.  
  
"Come."  
  
Will followed. They walked slowly down the corridor, and through another set of doors. These doors opened into what appeared to be a very large hall. At one end burnt a substantial fire. Light was slanting in through high up windows. In the centre of the room was a huge table, around which sat several other people, whether men or women Will could not tell, for they were all cloaked, hiding their faces. Suspended in a cage above them, dangling from the ceiling, was Andy, his red hair tousled and dirty, he had been stripped to the waist, and there was some sort of mark branded on his chest. Will looked up at him, and Andy looked back down, his hand stretched through the bars of the cage, and an imploring look on his eyes.  
  
Another man, whom Will had not seen before, turned around to face him.  
  
"Well, well, well," he said, his voice high pitched and nauseating. Will went weak at the knees.  
  
The man walked over to Will, stood before him, and slowly removed his hood. The face was familiar, for Harry must have described it to him a thousand times ... there were the narrow, red, snakelike eyes, the slit nostrils, the gaunt, stretched features. Will fought the urge to retch.  
  
"How are we feeling now?" asked Voldemort.  
  
Will remained silent. Voldemort grabbed his chin, and forced his head upwards so that he couldn't help but stare into those horrid red eyes.  
  
"William Potter," said Voldemort. "I have waited for this day. I have waited since the day of your birth."  
  
The Death Eaters sitting round the table laughed at this.  
  
"By such means as this, I am able to fulfil my deepest wish. I shall see your father, my nemesis, my mortal enemy, reduced to a shadow of his former self. Already my agent has taken your mother from him, and now, I have you."  
  
Will tried to look away, but Voldemort's grip was too strong. He turned, slowly, and shoved Will roughly in front of him.  
  
"What do you see before you?" he asked, addressing the Death Eaters.  
  
"A child, master."  
  
"A child, none the less, a fine, upstanding young boy. An excellent Quidditch player, or so I am told. But unfortunately, a Potter."  
  
Someone sitting at the table spat at the mention of his name. Voldemort raised his hand.  
  
"Thank you Nott ... that will do."  
  
One of the Death Eaters looked down, as if ashamed. Evidently to be reprimanded by the Dark lord was punishment enough in these circles.  
  
"We don't much care for the Potters, do we?"  
  
The Death Eaters, as one, shook their heads. Will set to trembling violently. Even his thick jumper seemed no protection against the freezing cold of the great hall.  
  
"What do you think I should do with this boy?"  
  
"Kill him," someone hissed.  
  
"Torture," said another.  
  
"Wormtail," said Voldemort. The man who had led Will from his cell stepped forwards. "If you please. I find this part rather distasteful."  
  
Wormtail seized Will around the neck. "Hold quite still," he whispered in the boy's ear. "And this will hurt less than if you struggle."  
  
Will was powerless to resist as Wormtail pulled his jumper over his head, and flung it away into the darkness. He shivered, felt goose pimples rising on his skin. The next thing he knew, he had been pushed rudely to the ground, and he fell to the floor, cracking his elbows on the hard stone. Wormtail seized him by his left leg, and half dragged him, half carried him across the hall. Will could feel the cold stones scraping the skin from his back. He was dumped roughly on the other side of the room. He hugged his knees to his chest, shaking violently, tears streaming down his bloodied face. His back was numb with pain. He shut his eyes. He could hear footsteps coming closer to him again ... clicking on the floor, until they were right before him.  
  
"Open your eyes William Potter," Voldemort's voice. Will opened one eye, just a slit. His glasses were dashed from his face.  
  
"Can you see me now?" asked Voldemort.  
  
Will could ... just, though the shapes were indistinct and blurry. He heard the sound of what felt like bellows. He turned to see what was going on. Voldemort appeared to be warming a branding iron in the fire.  
  
"This may hurt a little," said Voldemort, removing the now red hot iron from the flames. He leant down, close to Will, holding the iron in front of his face. Will recoiled. He watched as Voldemort moved the iron slowly down his neck to his chest. He stopped. Will shivered again. He was so cold.  
  
He screamed as Voldemort applied the iron to his bare skin, he felt himself burning ... heard the crackle of sizzling flesh. Voldemort pushed the iron harder into Will's chest, a look of great pleasure in his heartless eyes. Finally, after what seemed like an age, the iron was removed, and flung away. It clattered against the stones. The Death Eaters were murmuring amongst themselves, though what they were saying was by no means clear.  
  
Will dared to glance down. What he saw made him come close to vomiting. The Dark Mark, like some hideous scar, blood oozing from the wound, burnt into his chest.  
  
"Such will all who defy me be punished," said Voldemort, gesturing to Will. There was a murmur of approval from the Death Eaters. "Such will Potter's grief be magnified when he learns that the Dark Mark disfigures his son's body. Put him in the cage."  
  
He saw two Death Eaters rise from the table, heard their footsteps as they approached him, felt their icy grip on his shoulders, and then knew no more.  
  
***********  
  
He awoke, some minutes later, to find himself trapped within the same cage that held Andy. The other boy was crouched in the corner, rocking backwards and forwards. Will tried to stretch out his hand, but it had been bound behind his back.  
  
"Are you okay?" he breathed. Andy shook his head in reply.  
  
"W ... what's going to happen?"  
  
"I don't know," said Will. "I can't see very well. What's happening?"  
  
"They just brought in somebody else," said Andy. "They've got whoever it is over by the fire. They were giving some sort of potion ... was crying."  
  
"Now what's happening?"  
  
"Nothing much," whispered Andy. "Voldemort was screaming about something."  
  
The pain in Will's chest had faded to a dull ache, though the ugly disfigurement was still very evident. It was like a smack in the face, an affront to all that Will knew his Father had fought, and risked his life for ... and now here he was, his son, trapped in a cage, cowed and crying for fear of his life. He hoped Harry never had to see him like this.  
  
Voldemort rose from the dark shape hunched by the fire. He turned to the cage. "I see you are awake William. You are just in time to witness my miracle."  
  
Will said nothing.  
  
Voldemort had turned back to the cowering figure. "Awake, my sweet," he said.  
  
The figure stirred, and slowly, almost painfully, got to its feet. Like the Death Eaters, it wore a long black cloak, that covered its head completely. Voldemort pressed a wand into its outstretched hand. The Death Eaters, as one, stepped backwards.  
  
"You know what you must do," said Voldemort. The figure appeared to be nodding.  
  
Then it stepped forwards, its wand aimed at the boys, swinging above the table in their cage.  
  
It removed its hood ... and at that moment, both Will and Andy gasped in recognition.  
  
"Avada Kedavra!" the figure said.  
  
A/N  
  
Well, I defeated my writer's block, and then this only took me a few hours to write. Sorry to cliff hang everybody again (not really, you know you love it). The identity of the NEW mystery figure will be revealed next chapter, though I invite your guesses as to just who it might be. In the meantime, write me a review, and be forever revered in my eyes.  



	13. The Dark Lord's Plot

A/N  
  
Thank you to everybody who's been reviewing ... you are without exception wonderful! In today's chapter, we discover just who the mystery person actually is, and events reach their terrible climax. This is the penultimate part.  
  
Chapter 12.  
  
A bolt of green light shot from the end of the wand. Will closed his eyes in horror. But nothing happened. He opened them again. Hermione was on the floor, sobbing. Voldemort stood over her.  
  
"Imbeciles!" he was screaming. "You told me it would work. You told me it could not possibly fail!"  
  
"I ... I do not understand it my Lord," Wormtail was scurrying forwards. "I was sure it would..."  
  
"Silence!"  
  
Wormtail stopped dead in his tracks.  
  
"You are a failure Wormtail."  
  
"Master, I beg of you..."  
  
"You are an abject failure. A disgrace. You are unworthy to be a Death Eater. I should have you killed. Slowly, and painfully."  
  
"Master ... I beg your forgiveness. I will do anything."  
  
"Fetch me the boy named Draco," said Voldemort. "His shall be the honour of killing his erstwhile friends."  
  
"Yes Master. You are kind Master."  
  
"Get out of my sight," hissed Voldemort. Wormtail let out a squeak, and hurried away, back into the dungeons.  
  
Voldemort turned to Hermione.  
  
"How are we feeling my dear?" he asked.  
  
Hermione scowled at him. "No better for you asking," she snarled.  
  
"You owe me a lot, Mrs Potter," said Voldemort. "It was not easy for me to arrange all of this. To have you removed from St Mungo's without arousing suspicion. Lucius Malfoy played his part perfectly, I must say, even if the poor man was completely mad."  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Hermione ... she was still crouched on the floor, wringing her hands.  
  
"Malfoy is under the delusion that he is performing a task for his own ends," said Voldemort. "He believes he is setting up a test for his son, to capture and kill Ronald Weasley I believe. He believes that if his son passes the test, I will take him back into my ... exclusive club."  
  
The Death Eaters chuckled nervously.  
  
"I, of course, have no such intention. I reward my servants, true, but Draco Malfoy turned against me the day he fled from my Romanian redoubt, so long ago now ... yet I remember it, and I'll wager you do too."  
  
Hermione nodded. "He came to see me."  
  
"I know ... he was always very smitten with you ... he would never stop talking of you. He quite tired us all out," Voldemort went on. "But that is neither here nor there. I have no intention of rewarding either of them. Lucius Malfoy has served his purpose, the miserable wretch, and he will be dispatched. Draco Malfoy, of course, will die, and you will be sent to Azkaban ... for having killed him."  
  
"I will do no such thing," protested Hermione.  
  
"Thus, my aims are fulfilled. Harry Potter will suffer pain and despair beyond my wildest fantasies, and I barely have to lift a finger. Imagine the suffering Hermione ... his son and heir dead and gone ... his dear wife, whom he believes is dead, and even now is grieving over, is alive, no less, but condemned to eternal hell within the walls of Azkaban. My vengeance will be partly complete."  
  
Hermione looked up into the face of Lord Voldemort.  
  
"Some day ... Potter will be delivered unto me. Until then, I must content myself with these little, pot shots at his life," he chuckled, but there was no mirth in his laughter. "Congratulations Lord Voldemort ... you have won the day, the Death Eaters go home for tea and currant buns. I believe that is how such stories invariably end?"  
  
"You'll have to kill me first," said Hermione.  
  
"No I won't."  
  
Wormtail came back into the hall, pulling Draco along behind him. Hermione gasped. Draco looked up. His face was bloodied and broken, his eyes weeping tears that were very real.  
  
"Draco?" breathed Hermione. Up in their cage, Andy and Will scrambled to see.  
  
"Hermi ... what are you ... what's going on?"  
  
"Hello there Draco," boomed Voldemort. "Welcome to Lord Voldemort's Family Fortunes, where the families we love to hate are broken asunder by me!"  
  
Draco turned to face him. He scowled at him.  
  
"Draco Malfoy ... meet Hermione Potter ... oh, sorry, you already have," said Voldemort, walking over to where the pair of them were standing, mere feet apart, Draco still restrained by Wormtail.  
  
"You met in more ways than one, didn't you?"  
  
"What do you ... how do you know?" gasped Draco.  
  
"Lord Voldemort has eyes and ears everywhere. You remember your night in the Tyrol? Wormtail does. He said it was so romantic, so perfect."  
  
"Mum?" Will breathed.  
  
"How fortunate that the erstwhile lovers must now be each other's undoing," Voldemort went on. "It reminds me of Romeo and Juliet. In a nasty way, of course," he paused and took breath. "Of course, we must introduce you to our audience. These," he gestured expansively, "are my Death Eaters, and hanging from the ceiling, we have Mister Andrew Weasley and Mister William Potter, who are my guests of honour, and will of course be dying later. Hello boys!"  
  
Both Hermione and Draco's gaze travelled upwards to where the cage was dangling from the ceiling.  
  
"Mum!" called Will. "Don't do as he says!"  
  
Hermione put her hands to her mouth. "What happened to you?" she called. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Portkey," said Draco. "It was my fault. If I hadn't ridden the broo..."  
  
"Shut up Malfoy! This is all your fault in the first place," glowered Hermione. "I was talking to Will!"  
  
"Draco's right," breathed Will. "There was a portkey. It was his Father ... in Sirius' garden."  
  
"What were you doing at Sirius'?" asked Hermione.  
  
Voldemort stepped in. "Touching reunion, sadly however, completely irrelevant," he turned to the boys in the cage. "You do realise, don't you Will, that Mister Malfoy here was shagging your Mother for quite some time?"  
  
Will made a face at Voldemort. Voldemort merely laughed. "For some time longer than either of them are prepared to admit."  
  
"Mum?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "Rot in hell," she breathed.  
  
"I'm so sorry, I didn't catch that," said Voldemort, turning back to face her. "Now, you know what I want you to do?"  
  
"You want me to kill them," said Hermione.  
  
"Exactly. Are you going to do it quietly and peacefully?" asked Voldemort, stalking around her, almost spitting the questions in her face.  
  
"Not likely," said Hermione.  
  
"I had hoped you would," said Voldemort. "It makes my life so much easier. Oh well," he withdrew his wand from his robes, and pointed it at Hermione. "Crucio," he said.  
  
Hermione collapsed to the floor, writing in pain. Draco broke free of Wormtail's grip, and dived down to the floor beside her.  
  
"Touching," said Voldemort. "Very touching. I like the display of devotion Draco, it could win you an Oscar," he waved his wand. "Finite incantatem," he said, tiredly.  
  
Hermione sat up. "You unspeakable bastard!" she hissed.  
  
"Temper, temper," said Voldemort. "Perhaps a little further persuasion?"  
  
"You wouldn't."  
  
"Oh, not to you Hermione. To our captive audience," he aimed his wand straight at the cage, and before Will had quite grasped what was going on, he too had been hit by the Cruciatus Curse. He had heard Harry tell of how painful it was, but quite how painful he had never been able to grasp. It was as if every muscle in his body was in spasm, every nerve screaming blue murder. It was true about it making you want to die. He could sense Andy leaning over him, her Hermione screaming in the background.  
  
Voldemort turned back to Hermione. "You don't like that much do you?" he said.  
  
"You're unspeakable!" snapped Hermione. "You deserve everything that's coming to you."  
  
"But nothing is coming to me," said Voldemort. He turned back to the cage. "Would you care to see your flesh and blood suffer any longer?"  
  
Hermione was weeping. She could both see and hear Will's pitiful screams as the Curse gripped his entire body. "Make it stop!" she gasped. "Please make it stop!"  
  
"I thought not," said Voldemort. "Finite incantatem."  
  
"Why are you doing this to us?" gasped Hermione.  
  
"Personal pleasure, mainly," said Voldemort. "My Death Eaters and I are an easy bunch to please. Muggles know it as schadenfreude, the action of finding the misfortune of another amusing."  
  
Andy put his arm round Will's shoulders, and held him as his sobbing subsided.  
  
"Now," said Voldemort, turning back to Hermione and Draco. "Hermione ... the time has come for Draco to die. He who betrayed me all those years ago has managed to avoid my wrath, so far."  
  
Draco was quivering in fright. "Please, no," he whispered.  
  
"Your Father always said you were nothing but a stinking coward Draco," said Voldemort. "I am beginning to suspect he was right. See how he grovels at my feet," he turned back to the Death Eaters. "Such cowardice, such fear. This boy has no right to call himself a Death Eater. He had no right to ever do so. It is right that he dies now as was intended all along, like a coward, weeping on the floor."  
  
"At least let me die as I should do," said Draco. "Not like this."  
  
Voldemort looked on the boy with something approaching pity.  
  
"He is right of course," he said. "It would be more fitting for Hermione to kill the one she loved, rather than this child."  
  
He aimed his wand at Draco, and for a brief moment, Draco quaked in fear, fear that Voldemort was tricking him, and that he was actually going to kill him dead as he stood. However, he did not. He merely muttered a brief incantation, the exact words Draco did not hear.  
  
Draco stared down at his bare feet. Before his very eyes, they were growing. He could feel himself getting taller! He looked down at his arms. They were getting thicker, more defined ... there were hairs sprouting again. He looked to Voldemort in amazement.  
  
"Is it true?" he asked. He stopped himself ... his voice had broken.  
  
Voldemort nodded. "You shall die like a man Draco," he said.  
  
"I think I'm about done," said Draco. There was a ripping sound as his borrowed jeans split.  
  
"That will do," said Voldemort. Draco looked down at himself.  
  
"I'm back," he said. "Lucky me. There aren't many who can go through adolescence in thirty seconds."  
  
Hermione was smiling at him.  
  
"See what I mean?" he said to her.  
  
"You look ridiculous Draco," she said. She removed her heavy cloak, stepped forwards, and draped it round his shoulders. She was wearing a bright green hospital gown underneath. "Not very flattering is it?" she went on.  
  
"Thanks," said Draco. "I appreciate that."  
  
"No problem."  
  
Voldemort appeared to be getting angrier. Finally he screamed. "Enough! Silence! Both of you."  
  
Draco and Hermione turned to look at him.  
  
"This is not some soap opera!" roared Voldemort. "This is not how it should be. I order you to kill him now!"  
  
Draco turned to Voldemort. He surveyed him in disgust. "Do shut up, you horrible little man," he drawled.  
  
He was still holding Will's wand. He lowered it until it was pointing at Voldemort.  
  
"You wouldn't," said Voldemort. "Not after, not after what I've done to you."  
  
"You would have done," said Draco. "Give me ten good reasons why I shouldn't use the Killing Curse on you now, and you may live."  
  
Voldemort turned to the Death Eaters, who were standing in a tight group at the fireside.  
  
"Come on ... you idiots!" he hissed.  
  
"That's ten reasons," said Draco. "No more, no less. I have the upper hand here."  
  
Voldemort looked back at him, with pure, undiluted hatred in his eyes. Finally, he spoke. "I ... I cannot," he said.  
  
"Exactly," said Draco. "Now," he swallowed. "May God have mercy on me. Avada Kedavra!"  
  
Nothing happened. Voldemort, who had covered his eyes, looked back to Draco.  
  
"It seems to have jammed," said Draco. "Damn wand!"  
  
The Death Eaters began to move, as one, fluid body, they surged across the floor towards Draco and Hermione, their wands withdrawn.  
  
"Kill them!" screamed Voldemort. "Kill them now!"  
  
"Avada Kedavra!" someone shouted. A bolt of green light shot out of the group of advancing men. Hermione ducked, rolled under the vast table. Draco dived the other way. The curse passed harmlessly between them, smashing a chair to pieces.  
  
Will was on his feet in the cage. "Draco!" he was screaming. "Chuck it up here. It sticks sometimes. I can make it work!"  
  
Draco picked himself up. The Death Eaters had stopped once again.  
  
"Attack him you fools!" Voldemort screamed.  
  
"Avada Kedavra!"  
  
When shouted by nearly fifty people, all at once, the sheer force of it was deafening. Draco could only look on in horror as one massive, green bolt of light seemed to leap out of the group. He could only think of getting the wand to Will. His world took on a sickening, almost slow motion quality. He could feel his feet carrying him across the flagstone floor, heard his yell as he hurled the wand like a javelin at the cage, and then dived headfirst under the table, as the curse passed behind him. He landed on Hermione ... and there was a deafening roar as the whole side wall of the hall seemed to give way under the force of the curse.  
  
Will reached through the bars, and grabbed the wand as it flew through the air. Draco's aim had been perfect.  
  
"Hold tight Andy," he said. "This could be nasty!"  
  
He took careful aim. He was dimly aware of Draco and Hermione thumping about under the table. He could see the Death Eaters, moving as one, their wands pointed straight at the cage. Will's mind was blank. He couldn't figure what spell to use. He wasn't yet advanced enough to use the ... then it hit him. Of course! It was obvious. He aimed his wand again, and summoning all his strength, willing the spell to work, screamed. "Expelliarmus!"  
  
There was an almighty clatter as fifty wands were wrenched from their owner's hands, and flew off into different corners of the enormous room. At once, the hall erupted in confusion. There was almost a stampede, as the Death Eaters turned tail, and fought, each desperate to seek out their wand. Voldemort was standing up on the table, screaming for all he was worth. "Get them. Hurry! You imbeciles!"  
  
Underneath the table, quite forgotten amidst the confusion Will had created, Draco detached himself from Hermione.  
  
"Sorry," he breathed.  
  
"It's quite all right," said Hermione. "Think nothing of it."  
  
"We should do something."  
  
Hermione nodded. "We have to get Will and Andy out. Is there some sort of pulley system?"  
  
"I guess," said Draco. "They must have raised and lowered the cage somehow."  
  
Hermione nodded again. "Are you going to do something then?"  
  
"I should take advantage of the diversion really," said Draco. He took a deep breath, and lunged into the melee.  
  
From that moment on, everything was a blur to Draco. His borrowed cloak afforded him total anonymity in the crowd of frantic Death Eaters. He elbowed his way through the throng, over to the far wall, by the entrance to the dungeon. Where the hell was that pulley? He couldn't for the life of him see it. Will and Andy were cowering in the cage, still uncertain what was going on, and then Draco saw it, on the other wall. A lever, connected to a chain, a system of pulleys. It had to be the one. He patted himself, looking for his wand, until he realised he didn't have it.  
  
"Bugger," he said. He was going to have to pull the lever himself. Praying that Voldemort would assume he was just another random, panicky Death Eater, he launched himself across the room ... his bare feet pounding on the floor. He had never run so fast before. There was the lever, right in front of him. He reached out, grabbed, and yanked it up as far as it would go.  
  
There was a pause. Then a dramatic thud that only Draco heard. He spun round. The chains rattled, and then the cage began to plummet downwards. Down ... down it went. There was a horrifying crack as it struck Voldemort on the head ... it sounded like a watermelon splitting. Voldemort fell forwards, onto the floor, and the cage crashed into the table, splitting it in neatly in two.  
  
There was a weird, unearthly wailing. Someone shouted. "The Dark Lord is fallen!" The Death Eaters stopped dead in their tracks.  
  
Then someone else cried. "Flee!"  
  
Draco never thought he'd seen a hall empty so quickly ... not even when Fred and George Weasley had shouted 'Fire' during a Halloween feast. They scrambled for the exits ... rats, abandoning their sinking ship. Within a few, brief minutes, the hall was empty, and a deathly silence fell, save for the crackling of the fire.  
  
Draco peeled himself away from the wall, and walked slowly over to the wreckage. Voldemort's bloody body was lying, face down on the floor ... whether dead or alive, Draco didn't know, and nor did he care. His only thought was to get to the cage. He grasped the handle, then realised it was padlocked.  
  
"How do we get out?" groaned Will ... blood was oozing from a huge gash on his left shoulder. Andy looked shaken up, but otherwise fine, except for the burn on his chest.  
  
"I don't know," said Draco. "Did you see an axe?"  
  
Will shook his head. "I think Voldemort might have a key," he said.  
  
Draco turned back to the body. He knelt down next to it, and flipped it over. Sure enough, there was a bundle of keys attached to a loop on the inside of his cloak. Draco tugged hard, and the loop split. He grabbed the keys, and turned back to the boys.  
  
"It's the small one," said Will. "The very smallest."  
  
"This one?"  
  
Will nodded. Draco tested it in the lock. Sure enough, the rusty cage door swung open. Both boys flung themselves at Draco, almost knocking him over.  
  
There was a groaning sound from beneath the table. Hermione extricated herself from the wreckage with some difficulty.  
  
"Are you okay Hermi?" asked Draco, turning to her, the boys still clinging to him.  
  
Hermione smiled. "You know, looking at you," she said. "You could almost be their father."  
  
"Always said I'd make a good Dad," said Draco.  
  
***********  
  
Harry turned back to Ron. He shook his head at Harry. "Is there no hope?"  
  
"It doesn't look good," said Ron. "They'd need to question Mister Malfoy first, and he's in no fit state for that right now."  
  
Darkness had now fallen, and after getting over the initial shock of Malfoy's full confession, extricated from him with a little help from Snape and his stores of Veritaserum, the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had hurriedly been called. Malfoy had been taken away under heavy security earlier that afternoon, and was now spending his first night in Azkaban.  
  
"He did say the portkey was set up for, Romania or somewhere?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Yes, I'm sure it was Romania."  
  
"That would make a lot of sense," said Ron. "It tallies with all the accounts we've received of Voldemort's activities."  
  
Harry froze. "Are you suggesting Voldemort is somehow mixed up in all of this?"  
  
"It wouldn't surprise me at all," said Ron.  
  
"You're probably right," said Harry.  
  
There was a soft thud, somewhere off in the distance.  
  
"Did you hear anything?" asked Ron  
  
"What, what happened?" asked Harry.  
  
"I heard something. I'm going to check," said Ron. He took out his wand, and set off down the garden. Harry stood on the patio, too worried for his family to even move.  
  
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sirius.  
  
"You'd better come inside," he said. "Warm up a little. You'll catch your death out here."  
  
Harry smiled. "You sound like Aunt Petunia," he said.  
  
"It was not intentional," said Sirius, withdrawing his hand hurriedly. "Come on ... there's no sense in waiting around out here. I'll get some tea on. Sound good?"  
  
Harry turned away from the garden. "I guess so," he said.  
  
They were interrupted by a loud cry from Ron. He appeared to have found something.  
  
Sirius looked at Harry. "You think?" he asked.  
  
Harry nodded. "Let's go."  
  
They took off down the garden, heading in the direction of Ron's cry. Sure enough, he was crouched on the ground, just behind the line of trees. There were three dark shapes sprawled on the ground. Ron was clutching Andy to him, holding the boy tightly.  
  
Harry stopped dead in his tracks. "Ron?"  
  
"Harry ... it's okay," said Ron, he appeared to be smiling. "It couldn't be more okay. Come and see."  
  
Draco sat up. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, and smiled up at Ron and Harry. "Are we back?" he asked.  
  
The other shapes were stirring too. One revealed itself to be Will, though blue with cold, battered, and bruised, Harry flung his arms around him, and wept.  
  
"I was so worried," he said. Will was crying too.  
  
"Harry," another voice said. A hand touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Harry."  
  
Harry recognised the voice. He turned, still holding onto Will for all he was worth, and looked up.  
  
"Hello," said Hermione.  



	14. The Denouement

A/N  
  
Time for the epilogue, in which all the loose ends ... or at least the ones I can remember, and that weren't complete red herrings, are tied up.  
  
Epilogue. Later that evening.  
  
"...and so it was Draco really," said Hermione. "If he hadn't been there, I dread to think what would have happened," she looked around the room. Everybody was staring at her, their mouths wide open. There was a deathly silence.  
  
"So Draco saved the day," said Fleur, after a moment. She was still holding Andy very tightly, as if afraid he would vanish at any moment.  
  
"We all owe you a vote of thanks," said Harry.  
  
Draco looked slightly embarrassed. "I won't say it was nothing," he said. "Because that would be a lie ... it was bloody difficult. But ... I'm very sorry too. This was all my fault. I precipitated everything ... if I hadn't been so damn stupid as to try and see Hermione, or as to try to run away, none of this would have happened."  
  
"You can blame anything on anybody if you go back far enough," said Hermione. "If I hadn't been born a witch, I'd never have ended up at Hogwarts, and then I'd never have met Draco ... for my part Draco, I'm sorry I shouted at you in the castle, and I'm sorry I couldn't make any time for you when you first came to see me, hell, let's just say I'm sorry for the whole relationship up to this point ... and, as long as you know it can never be like it was, I hope we can still be friends."  
  
"I'd like that," said Draco. "Thanks."  
  
"You mustn't beat yourself up," said Harry. "In my eyes, you've redeemed yourself, and I think Hermione and the kids feel the same way ... and if you ever need a favour ... I could even pull a few strings up at my Department ... sort you out with some work. Have you ever considered being an Auror?"  
  
"This isn't a recruitment drive Harry," said Hermione.  
  
They ignored her. "No hard feelings?" Draco asked.  
  
"None at all," said Harry. "I'm sorry about the ferret thing."  
  
Draco shrugged. "That wasn't your fault ... anyway, I'm sorry about most things," he said. They shook hands. Ron looked extremely sullen.  
  
"Enough with the tearful pledges of eternal friendship already. I think we need a little explanation," said Sirius. "Some of this ... we already know. Ron? Is there something you'd like to tell us?"  
  
Ron got to his feet. "Yes," he said. "I've, something that, that I've been hiding for quite a while now. That I guess I should have told you a long time ago. I hope that, after I've told this, you'll find it in your hearts to forgive me for lying for so long."  
  
Sirius looked at him expectantly.  
  
"What do you think my job is?" asked Ron.  
  
"You're a broomstick salesman," said Harry. "You run a successful wholesale company in Diagon Alley."  
  
Ron shook his head. "I've never sold a broomstick in my life. I never will ... perish the thought."  
  
Harry, Hermione and Fleur stared at him, open mouthed.  
  
Ron continued. "When I left Hogwarts, I was approached by some men, who represented a section of the Ministry, a very high level section. They wanted to set up some sort of task force, a Magical Espionage Unit. Of course, I told them where to find you Harry ... but you'd already signed up to play Quidditch, and they said they didn't want you anyway. Too high risk. I ... they trained me up, as an Auror. I've been a professional, qualified Auror since I was twenty. Longer even than Harry. Now, originally, there were five of us. Me, Dean Thomas, Sirius here, Alastor Moody, you'll remember him, and Andras Scalzsek ... he's Polish, you won't know him. There's only three now ... Scalzsek and Dean both died in action."  
  
"The Ministry said Dean Thomas died in a broomstick accident," said Harry.  
  
"The Ministry lied," retorted Ron. "Together we were the most highly trained group of Aurors ever. We were the ones who were invariably called in. We must have gone over just about everybody's head over the years ... including Harry's. We were the front line of defence against Voldemort. If the call came through ... I'd have to be off within hours. You remember all my business trips Fleur?"  
  
Fleur nodded. "Sure, you went all over the place. Europe, America, Japan."  
  
Ron shook his head. "No," he said. "The business was a complete front. There never was any. When I was called away, it was usually because we'd had word of a group of Death Eaters, or some other sinister activity. Now, about seven years ago, we got word that there was a particularly large cartel of Death Eaters in southern Romania, near the Serb border. Somebody," he turned to Draco, "came to the Ministry with substantial information, in exchange for immunity from prosecution."  
  
"That's true," said Draco. "It was me. But I never realised they put you on the case."  
  
"Why would you?" said Ron. "It's a secret."  
  
"Fair point," said Draco.  
  
"Anyway," Ron continued. "There were reports of several wizard villages in the area being torched as well, unusually high dragon activity ... some muggles were getting worried. So off we went. We took a flight to Timisoara, where we were meant to meet Romanian Ministry officials. We thought we had met them as well, except they turned out to be Death Eaters. Someone had fixed us up," he turned again to Draco.  
  
"I gave that information in good faith," said Draco. "That at least wasn't my fault."  
  
Ron shrugged. "Whatever," he said, evidently still believing that Draco had set them up. "They drove us up into the Carpathians ... we didn't have any idea where we were going ... our information on Romania was sketchy at the time, remember the Iron Curtain had only just come down. We got to this castle. Horrible it was, all creepy dungeons, dripping water ... freezing cold."  
  
Draco, Will and Andy turned to look at each other.  
  
"That must have been where we were," said Will.  
  
Draco nodded. "I recognised it straight away ... of course," he said.  
  
Ron coughed. "We were brought before Voldemort. He was, as you can imagine, rather pleased to have caught the most significant threat to him, with little apparent effort on his part. He had us tortured for information ... nobody talked of course."  
  
Fleur let out a little cry.  
  
"Then we were thrown into one of the dungeons. I won't bore you with the details of our escape ... but we managed it, and we legged it down the mountainside to the nearest muggle village. The Death Eaters were close behind us, and then they had us cornered in this village. We couldn't go anywhere. It was either us or them, wasn't it Sirius?"  
  
"Exactly," said Sirius. "One or other of us would have to act first. Fortunately for us ... we did."  
  
"We got five of them," said Ron. "The others fled. We lost Dean though, and Scalzsek. One of the dead appeared to be Lucius Malfoy."  
  
"It wasn't though, at least, not in spirit," said Draco. "It's so obvious to me now, I can't imagine why I never figured it out before. Voldemort and the Dementors were always closely allied ... right?"  
  
Ron and Sirius both agreed.  
  
"Not all the Dementors were at Azkaban you see," said Draco. "Voldemort kept some of them for his own use, after his second resurgence, when they went over to his side. He kept them locked away in one of the dungeons."   
  
"You mean to say?"  
  
Draco nodded. "My Father was effectively soulless. The Dementors had sucked it out of him ... it was the best way Voldemort could think of to maintain absolute control over his servants. A few more weeks and he would have done it to me ... that's why I ran away."  
  
"Lucky for us you did," said Ron. "I think I see where you're going here."  
  
"Exactly," said Draco. "Avada Kedavra has no effect on those without souls. Seeing as they're effectively dead already. It certainly wouldn't have affected my Father. You see Ron, you did kill him, but as he was already dead, it made no difference to his general state."  
  
"It makes sense," said Harry. Hermione nodded her agreement.  
  
"So how do you explain how I survived Avada Kedavra?" asked Hermione. "I don't ever recall being soulless."  
  
"I might be able to explain that too," said Draco. "Harry ... how did you survive it?"  
  
"Everyone knows that," said Harry. "Some ancient magic, white magic, invoked by my Mother at the time of Voldemort's attack. It meant the curse was deflected back onto Voldemort when he tried to kill me."  
  
"You're all familiar with that part of the story," said Draco. He got to his feet and took to pacing the room as he talked. "It is my belief that a lot of that magic still lingers within Harry's body, and that he in turn has endowed his children with that same protection ... see how they both have inherited scars on their foreheads .. fainter than Harry's, but still visible. It is my belief that were I to turn on Will and Rebecca, and try to perform Avada Kedavra on them ... there would be no effect. A lesser effect was demonstrated on Hermione when she was attacked by my Father. She was also protected by Harry's magic."  
  
"How can that be?" asked Hermione. "We're not blood relatives."  
  
Draco shrugged. "My guess," he said, "and this is only a guess, is that Harry's love for Hermione is so strong that Hermione is in some way protected as well. It's a pathetic theory I know, but I think it's the right one."  
  
"So what really happened to me?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Probably, what Draco means, is that you had the appearance to us of being dead," said Harry. "Whereas what had happened, I imagine, was that you were merely stunned ... your metabolic rate slowed right down ... your heartbeat and pulse became so slow as to be undetectable. To all intents and purposes, you were dead ... in truth you were merely sleeping very deeply."  
  
"Voldemort would have needed no great skill to reanimate you," said Draco. "I imagine he had put you under the Imperius Curse."  
  
"What about your Father?" asked Ron. "Was he acting under the curse too?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "We'll never know," he said. "I'm certainly not going along to Azkaban to visit him, and I doubt he'll ever be in much of a condition to reveal all. I can tell you what Hermione told me though ... that he was acting under Voldemort's instructions, though he believed himself to be masterminding some sort of plan to capture you Ron ... in reality, he was acting out Voldemort's scheme all along. Voldemort had no intention of letting me back into the Death Eaters ... thank God. But probably, the Imperius Curse was used."  
  
"You said he had no soul," said Sirius. "Pardon me, but doesn't that reduce a man to an empty husk? How would he have been capable of anything beyond innate reactions, breathing, and so on."  
  
"Voldemort had overcome that particular barrier. He had their souls, in little jars, I saw them once ... yet he could still give them instructions ... and they could carry them out. Unfortunately, this is all speculation," said Draco. "The only person who ever really knew what was going on was Voldemort himself ... and we don't even know if he's dead or alive."  
  
"So what do you chaps make of the footprints in your garden Harry?" asked Sirius.  
  
Harry shrugged. "We won't ever really know," he said. "Lucius Malfoy may have made them ... I expect he probably didn't though ... they led away from the house."  
  
They looked to Draco, but Draco just shrugged. "I was in your garden the previous night," he said. "But, um, it wasn't me ... I left by a different route," he was certainly not about to tell them he was an unregistered Animagus.   
  
"And the smoke?" asked Ron.  
  
Harry shrugged. "Perhaps the farmer was lying ... more probably I'd got the date wrong. It doesn't matter anyway."  
  
"That's a relief," said Fleur.  
  
Sirius coughed. "Awfully sorry to change the subject and everything, but looking at my watch," he said. "I see we still have about four hours of Christmas Day left. What say I get the house elves to rustle up some lunch?"  
  
"That," said Harry, smacking his lips. "Would be lovely."  
  
The End.  
  
A/N  
  
Anybody fancy a sequel? This is definitely the end of this one, but if I get enough reviews pointing me that way, I might be tempted to carry on. Thank you so much for sticking this out, it is my first effort, and sometimes I think it lacked in style, something which I'm working on. I was also conscious that I introduced several characters ... then dumped them ... I felt I had too many to work with, which is why Rebecca and Mary barely figured ... I may axe them in future, cos I think they get in the way ... let me know what you think about that problem. Thanks also to everybody who reviewed ... a huge hug to all of you! See y'all again some time!  



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